You Keep Spinning Round Me Just the Same
by Djinn1
Summary: Love makes you do the wacky. So does grief. And when the two collide? This is messy as anything. Also a little experimental in the POVs. The title and chapter titles are from the Linkin Park song "Heavy." This is Spock/Chapel and also Spock/Uhura, but diehard Spock/Uhura shippers may not like this. This is for Ruth.
1. Chapter 1

You Keep Spinning 'Round Me Just the Same

By Djinn

Part 1 - _I Know I'm Not the Center of the Universe_

 _Christine_

He never wanted me. I try to tell myself that, as I wait for his comm, and a bit later, as I stand on my balcony watching the sidewalk he always takes, as I see his hair, blue-black in the afternoon light.

As he palms himself into my building, because of course I've put him on the door.

He never wanted me. I murmur it as I pour the kind of sparkling water he prefers. No ice cubes because he dislikes them.

I used to think he disliked me. That may still be true.

Me. The person. The brain inside this body he cannot seem to get enough of.

Me. The friend of the woman he's living with.

Me. The betrayer. For a man who never wanted me when he was free.

Me. The idiot.

Only...

Only...

Only, this is how I got Roger. He was with Andrea. It was no surprise to see her, not really, in that android body. She was the one he loved. I was the one he was addicted to. Addicted enough to give me a ring. Not addicted enough to stay. Would he have broken the engagement if he'd come back?

I think...I think he would have.

Addiction wears off. I saw that when she was there, on that world where his mind was all that was left of him. He was happy to see me—but why wouldn't he be? By the time I got there, she'd have bored him again—bored his beautiful mind. His powerful mind.

His batshit crazy mind, at the end.

The door chimes. Spock's on the access list, and he's palming the door open even though the ring has barely faded. I think it's his way of telling me to put aside the pensive thoughts—the bitter and angry and needy thoughts.

He likes my body. The rest of me...who knows?

I lift my chin as he walks toward me. He reaches for me and I feel anger.

This man did not want me and I'm sleeping with him anyway.

"I didn't buy your soap." I practically spit the words at him.

He used it up the last time he was here. He doesn't want to go home smelling of sex with me, but he also doesn't want to go home smelling of unfamiliar soap that she'd notice. So I buy him the kind he uses. He dilutes it, so it doesn't smell like he just took a shower.

A thinker, this man who fucks me but isn't mine.

He holds up a bag. "I anticipated you would not buy it."

We stare at each other. He knows I'm angry. I know he doesn't care that I did or didn't buy him his soap, that I am or am not angry. It should be enough to end this.

"She's prettier than I am." I don't ask; it's a fact. Nyota is a beauty; I'm just...good looking.

"Yes." He tilts his head.

"She's not smarter than I am."

"No. But she is not unintelligent."

It is the Vulcan way to speak in double negatives. And this is a ritual. He's using me, and I want him to know that I harbor no illusions. Each and every time, I want him to know that.

"I'm better in bed."

He looks away, taking in my apartment as if it's the first time he's seen it.

But it's not. He's fucked me in every room of this place. Multiple times.

"Yes," he finally says.

I move closer. I pull him down to me and when our lips almost touch, I whisper, "You're cheating on her. You're an asshole."

The last part is new. The last part is a slap in his face, and I can tell by the way he backs up that he feels the words deep inside him. But then he looks in the kitchen and he frowns—an honest expression—and the look he turns on me is...tender?

"That is one of his glasses. You would not let me use them before."

He's not wrong. I, too, am fond of double negatives. He's referring to Jim's double old-fashioned glasses. The ones he drank his scotch sours in. The last glass he used before he left for the launch is the one I've poured Spock's water into.

I guarded them. Left them sitting on the counter, making sure they were never dusty. Never using them for my own drinks, let alone this clandestine lover's. Missing Jim. Missing him so much.

Even fucking his best friend—or maybe because I'm fucking him and doing nothing else with him—doesn't alleviate the loneliness. Betraying another of his friends—of _my_ friends—only makes it worse.

For a year now. For a year today.

He wouldn't approve of what we're doing here. But I think he'd understand it. The pain Jim left in the wake of his sacrifice on the _Enterprise-B_ leveled everything in its path. Including me. And this man.

And the woman Spock goes home, too, also. After he lost Jim, she offered Spock her customary love, but he wanted to bury his rage and pain and sadness and loneliness in something that would understand it measure for measure.

He wanted me. Because I was his friend's woman. And because I was damaged like he was.

And so this started.

He looks unaccountably touched as he hands me the bag and goes into the kitchen. He handles the glass reverently. "It was a year last month that we lost him."

"Yes," I say, because there's no other response to that. We waited a month. We'd run into each other at Command—him fresh from his latest trip searching for Jim. No body meant no death to him. Until that day. Until he gave up.

Giving up meant finding me.

And he did. He found me spitting mad at the world around me. Fun fact: some people manifest grief as rage rather than sadness. They kick out instead of withdrawing. I hadn't wanted Jim to go to the stupid launch. He'd hated Harriman—mocked him too many times for it to make sense that he'd go.

Other than it was an _Enterprise,_ if not his version of the ship.

That day, in the corridor, coming out of ops, seeing Spock waiting for me. The look on his face helpless. He hadn't needed to say anything. We understood what was going to happen immediately. He needed to assuage his guilt for giving up by doing something that would be an even greater betrayal. I needed to do the same thing with my rage and who better than her man—she'd told me that she was _afraid_ of me. That I needed to see someone. My best friend: afraid of me. I wonder what she feels now?

Does she know? I don't care if she does. The part of me that should care was hollowed out from Jim's death and now it's filled with whatever this is with Spock.

I take the soap into the bathroom, put it in the shower, and discard the empty container. When I look up, into the mirror, he's behind me, studying me. I lift my chin; I don't ever let him see weakness.

"Do you wish to end this?" he asks softly.

"Do you?"

He'll blink first. I've always sworn it. I have a bet with myself when he'll do that—we bet on anything in ops, you see. I think he'll call it off on her birthday. When she smiles up at him, in that half seductive/half sweet way she has, and tells him she loves him.

Not cheating on her will be his present. Who says Vulcans aren't sentimental?

If I'm right, we have two months left.

He holds the glass up, but instead of drinking, he pulls me against him, my back to his chest, and lifts the glass to my lips.

Drink this in remembrance of me. It's sacrilegious, but this man has become my religion, the way I order my time, the way I think of what is and isn't mine.

The way I don't like to spend time with one of my best friends. The way I think she looks at me, like she knows.

When why should she? What Vulcan would ever cheat?

But he's half human. And she's human. And Vulcans can't bond with humans. Little known fact he shared with me one day when I asked him how she didn't just _know_ he was cheating on her.

It's far less permanent than it seemed between them. Funny how she never told me that, let me believe they were headed for forever.

I drink, sipping with my eyes closed, remembering how Jim touched me before he left. His kiss. His murmured "I love you." It was casual because he didn't know he wouldn't be coming back. I was distracted because I didn't know it was the last time I'd ever see him.

And this man taking the glass and drinking from it, too, wasn't even on the planet. He and Ny were on Risa, having fun, at her insistence. She'd wanted a vacation, almost nagged him into it. They got back as the news reports played.

I think sometimes that's the other reason he sought me to bury his pain in. She represents what took him away. And I know this because he's told me that—when I asked her about the trip, she said it was fun till the end. She put on the saddest look in the world as she said it. As if somehow her losing my lover was a bigger loss than my losing him.

But she knows what she did. She knows, just as I do, that Jim wanted Spock at the launch. To offset Harriman getting the ship, he needed his best friends there.

But Spock was on Risa with her, and Len was teaching a medical seminar on Andoria. And I was in ops. He never thought to ask me to come. It had been so long since I'd been part of his crew. Part of his life, yes. But not something he linked in his mind with the ship he was losing for good.

His one true duranium love.

I think, if asked, dying to save her would be the way he'd have wanted to go.

I lean back, and Spock pushes more firmly against me—supporting me. It's unexpected. When I think of us, I don't think of him taking care of me.

"I am not...unmoved by you, Christine."

I meet his eyes in the mirror. This is new. A gift of some sort. I frown, and he leads me out of the bathroom and to the bedroom. We stand, chest to chest, and he pulls me in for a hug, and some of the water splashes on my neck but I'm too busy marveling at his actions to complain.

He's not given to affection. That isn't what we're about.

"I miss him," he says, so softly that I know he'll let me ignore the statement if I want.

"I miss him, too." And I do miss him, but it's been a year, and now I will miss Spock when he leaves me to go home to his woman, my friend.

And if I'm right, in two months, he will leave and never come back again.

I'll enjoy this while I have it. I will writhe and moan and come, over and over because he loves to give me that.

It may be all he can give me. And we both know it.

We're pragmatic, after all. Highly logical, the both of us. Scientists.

He sets the glass on the bedside table, his finger sliding down the side, putting a vertical line in the condensation—he may not like ice, but he likes his water chilled.

I reach over and put another line, bisecting his, running perpendicular. The plus sign. The additive signal.

He looks at me and his gaze is thoughtful. I know I'm giving him nothing by my expression, but if he wants to know what I'm feeling, he only has to touch my skin. Telepathy is a double-edged sword, though. He can find out so much he doesn't want to know, too.

He traces an "S" through the condensation and I laugh, a sound that's jarring in this bedroom, with him. We never laugh.

He's never whimsical.

But he looks at me as if daring me to finish it, so I reach over and put the "C" on the other side of the plus sign. It can be wiped away in a second. Nothing so solid as inscribing it on a bench or a tree or a rock.

But still it is there. We have written it. _S + C_.

He doesn't wipe it away. He just stares at it.

"Do you want to be here?" I ask as gently as I can. Normally, we're harder with each other but he's so...pensive.

"I do. Too much." He meets my eyes. "You understand a part of me that others do not."

By others he means his lover, his girlfriend, his goddamned fiancée.

Yes, I am doing this when he's going to marry someone else. He proposed on Risa. Just as she wanted him to do.

But others also mean his mother and his father and Len and the rest of the crew. "Did Jim know? How you could be?"

He shakes his head. "He would be angry that I was using you in this fashion."

It's a cold-edged truth that he's never said—that he _uses_ me—and yet he sounds forlorn when he says it. As if he regrets the act, not me.

"I think," I say as gently as I can, "that he would be angrier that you're cheating on Ny."

"Yes, that too."

I stare at what we've inscribed on the glass. The moisture is starting to drip, soon our message will be illegible, nothing more than a ring on the coaster the glass sits on. "Do you believe that?" I point to the glass.

"There is something between us."

"Yes, her name is Nyota Uhura."

"I do not mean in that way." He brushes the idea of her away. He is excellent at compartmentalizing. Sometimes I think she doesn't exist for him when he's here. That until he gets in the shower and pumps out some of his soap, he's a free man simply enjoying himself with a woman.

Not betraying someone he ostensibly loves.

He pulls off my clothing, nothing sensual in the way he does it. We've been at this for a year. We don't waste time with small things.

But he never assumes I'm ready, always takes time, has never hurt me. Should I be grateful? That he's a considerate lover?

And a good one.

I pull him into me, and try to remember what it felt like with Jim. He wasn't lanky, his voice not so gravelly, and I didn't run my hands over this much hair on his chest. And he laughed—he loved to laugh and talk and touch, for hours after sex. It was lovely and safe and warm. And I could have stayed with him forever.

But this man pushing into me is an excellent lover, too. In fact, as lovers, they are equals.

As loves, well, there's no comparison. Only one of them ever loved me.

And I won't deceive myself that it will ever be any other way.

* * *

 _Spock_

You are thrusting, close to completion, and normally this would be the time you close your eyes, that you hide the fact that the woman you are having sex with is not the woman you have said you wish to marry. But today, you feel something else and you keep your eyes open.

Christine is watching you, and her look, as it has been throughout this afternoon, is confused. Your tenderness mystifies her. You think Jim would be livid that you have been with her a year and only now are showing her that you care.

She reaches up and traces along your ear, murmuring for you to let go, to come, and you do, kissing her almost savagely, wishing it were possible to bond with a human because if it were, you would do it now, as you were in her, so that you would not be betraying Nyota any longer.

If you were true mates, what would an engagement matter?

An engagement you were not entirely ready for, but Nyota had made clear she desired. On a planet you never wanted to go to, but she has ways of making you do things you do not want to do.

That is less true now. That ended the day you stepped onto a shuttle and saw the news about Jim. Lost. Lost when you should have been there.

"Spock, let go." Christine's voice is husky and seductive with no artifice. She never seduces you the way Nyota does, with batted eyes and clever lines.

Christine doesn't seduce you at all. It may be what draws you the most to her. A year now of taking her every way you can imagine and still, she is a mystery.

Still, she is Jim's.

"Spock, let go." There is something almost desperate in her emotions. You think she believes that you will end this soon. You think she believes your guilt will overtake you.

You think she is wrong.

You are not sure when you decided it was all right to be this man, one who had two women, but you have decided that.

You have just not shared it with either of them. Let Christine think you are breaking your own code. Let Nyota believe you are faithful—although you think she does not believe that anymore. But you do not meld for pleasure—or at least, that is what you tell her.

"Spock, God, don't let go. Not yet." You can feel Christine's climax building and you smile slightly, pleased you can give her this, over and over. She has closed her eyes so she does not see your satisfaction, only calls out your name as she comes loudly and long.

If this woman were yours, you would meld with her. That is the truth you hide from both her and Nyota. That you wanted Christine, finally wanted her, but Jim had decided the same thing. You had not told him you were inclined toward her—and why would he think you were, after years of him urging you to give her a chance? That you finally were going to acquiesce just as he discovered how much he liked Christine was the greatest of ironies.

You turned instead to Nyota. She is, as Christine says, more beautiful. But she is not more desirable. Especially not when it was Christine you wanted in the first place.

"May I climax now?" you ask her, and she laughs, and the sound echoes in this silken bedroom that you consider a haven. The two of you do not usually amuse each other.

"Yes. Let go. Sorry." Her voice is light, her lips turned up, and you lean in and kiss her. She runs her fingers along your back, nail tips dancing up and down, barely touching, causing shivers.

You do not think you will ever get enough of her if you cannot have her. You believe she has no idea this is true, but then you never shared with her that you wanted her at the same time Jim did.

In fact, she thinks you did not. She has said it before, when she was angry with you. "You never wanted me" standing in for things she will not say.

Like that she loves you. Even though she does. You feel it whenever you touch her.

And the guilt she had, after Jim was gone, has disappeared. It should bother you that she feels no guilt over betraying Nyota, but since you are in this venture together, you do not dwell on it.

You finish, pushing into her, moaning loudly, pulling her to her side as you roll off her. You reach over her, for the water she has poured into your friend's glass. Does she realize what a monumental gift she has given you?

You watch her face as you take a sip. You think she fully realizes what she's given you.

Then she frowns, and you sense her confusion, rising through her lovely skin into yours. "Has something changed?" Immediately, regret colors everything.

"No." You put the glass down and tangle your fingers in her hair, forcing her to look at you. "No, do not regret asking."

She cocks her head, studying you the way you imagine she would an experiment. You share that: science. You would have many things to talk about if she were your mate.

You kiss her softly. "Yes, yes something has changed."

She frowns. She is not unhappy—that you would feel clearly. But whatever emotion she is feeling is much harder to quantify. Perhaps with a meld?

You reach for her face, but she pulls away.

"No?" you ask, surprised.

"No." Suddenly she is sliding off the bed, away from you, landing half on the floor. "This is what it is."

You have said that to her. Numerous times. Usually to also make clear what it is not.

You slip from the bed, following her, reaching out, your hand open. "Christine? Do you not want this?"

She squints, frowning, and does not take your hand. "You're with her. You're _with_ her."

"At this moment, I am with you."

"Yes, and moments are all we have." She shakes her head and gets quickly to her feet, going into the guest bathroom and shutting the door.

You hear the lock engage, then the sound of the shower.

Your soap is in her bathroom. She has left you that. She expects you to leave. She does not want to talk. This surprises you more than anything the two of you have done in this year of excess and betrayal.

You get up and take a shower, feeling forlorn even if you normally do not linger in her bed. Now, when you want to, she is not interested.

Perhaps she never has been?

But no. You feel everything. When you leave her, you slide your hand over her body. A possessive touch but also informative. You know if your departure makes her sad or angry or just relieved because she is tired and would rather be sleeping than pleasuring you.

And no matter what, through all those emotions, you can always feel her love.

You consider, as you dress, breaking into the guest bathroom. The lock is rudimentary and you figured out how to do it when you were a child.

But if she wanted to shower with you, she would be in her bathroom. Although you rarely shower together anymore.

Has she grown tired of you? The love notwithstanding? Or just tired of the situation?

You stand at the door and knock gently. The water is no longer going and she says, "Goodbye."

You wait, to see if she will open the door.

She does not.

"Goodbye," you say, then you leave your haven and head home.

* * *

 _Nyota_

She sits across from Spock, the dinner table the only thing that's keeping her from launching herself at him. Does he think she doesn't know where he goes? She followed him from Command this time. Straight to Christine's—well, Jim's—apartment. He was so focused on where he was going he never bothered to look back.

She waited for him to come out. His look was...pensive. Not guilty. Not furtive. He left that building like any other visitor.

Not like the cheater he is.

She realizes he's said something and says, "What?" in a sharper way than she means to.

"I merely asked how your day was."

She smiles, and knows it's a smile he'd do well to mind. She thinks he has no idea how dangerous the mood she's in is. "It was okay."

His eyebrow goes up.

"But then I wasn't having sex with my other lover. Maybe I'd have had a better day if I was."

He sits very still, not looking away. Will he grow a pair of balls now? Finally? She's hinted around for weeks, ever since a friend mentioned seeing him in Christine's building.

Her best fucking friend.

She's been hinting around, and he's avoided discussing this. But now, she's tired of feints and shots across the bow. She wants to have this out.

But she also wants to win. She won him once over Christine, and she'll do it again. So she lightens her tone, softens her voice and her eyes and even her stance. Melting toward him the way he used to say reminded him of a cat.

"When will you stop punishing me for Risa, Spock?"

Because that's what this is about. She made him lose Jim—or that's what he's never been willing to say. She thinks he believes her too stupid to figure it out on her own.

But she's not stupid. She's never been stupid. You don't serve as long as she did under Jim Kirk if you're stupid.

Jim. It's how she thinks of him even if she only got to call him that once she was with his best friend. She thinks, after everything she did, everywhere she followed him, all the risks she took for him, that she should have been able to call him that for her own sake. Not because it was awkward to have his bud's girlfriend calling him "Sir" or "Captain" when they all got together.

But no.

She's not going to talk about that, though. It would be counterproductive if keeping Spock is on her to-do list, and it is, and she's smart enough to know how to manage him.

She's not sure when he and Christine started, but she wants them to finish before her next birthday.

Or she'll leave. She's promised herself she'll leave.

"Nyota, I am not sure what—"

She holds up her hand, in the way that he understands after nearly two years with her means, "No. Stop." Shut the fuck up, even if she only thinks it, never says it. People assume a lot about her. Because she knows how to act, how to behave, how to be good and nice and pleasing. But that doesn't mean inside she's any of that.

She almost would rather have this conversation with her friend. Up on the gorgeous balcony Jim picked the apartment for. Maybe with a nice big shove and Christine's scream growing more and more distant as she fell.

Only she'll never do that. Because there might be someone underneath that would get hurt. Or have to see that. She's thoughtful.

Unlike some.

"I know you're sleeping with her. I don't care why. I don't want to know how long it's been going on. I just want you to choose. You can have me or you can have her. But you can't have us both."

For a moment, he looks as if he's still going to protest, to pretend to innocence, but then something drops and she realizes it's the lie they've been living.

In his eyes, she sees a myriad of emotions. Guilt, for one. But also...resentment? He fucking resents her? How the hell does he get off resenting her?

"What? Say what you're thinking, Spock. After so long lying, I'd think that'd be welcome."

She sees true anger in his eyes. This is more emotion than she's witnessed since Jim died. Before she knew he was with Christine, she thought he was cutting off all his feelings. Now she wonders if he's burying them along with his dick in Christine's body.

"Very well." He leans forward. "You want me to choose?"

She nods.

"She will not make me choose."

It hurts. God, it hurts, to hear him talk about Christine, even if he doesn't say her name. But it has to hurt, because this is horrible what he's doing to her—what they're both doing to her. "Fine, choose her." She could get up and stalk off if she wanted to end this right now.

She thinks by the look in his eyes, he'd like her to. To spare him the trouble and guilt of being the one to pull the "It's over" trigger.

But it's not over. It's never going to be over. Everyone knows it's forever with Vulcans. This cannot be fucking over. Not when she won. When she finally won.

Even if she lost Jim. How the hell did Christine get him? Christine left the ship—left him—twice. While she stayed, Christine left. And Christine ends up with Jim?

And Nyota ended up with Spock. A prize, too. She's always been in love with both of them.

And now Christine doesn't get to have them both. That's not how this story ends.

"Do you love her?" she asks, putting as much hurt in her voice as she can, making it waver just so. She's a singer and a bit of an actress. And she knows everything there is to know about communicating. She's going to have to keep him off balance.

Guilt is the only way to do that with him. Push him, and he runs. Just ask his father how well demands go.

He meets her eyes, and she reads uncertainty in his. He's not sure if he loves Christine.

Which means he's not sure if he isn't. She wasn't expecting that.

"Spock, I know you were hurting after Jim. I know I wasn't the right person to talk to about it." Even though she should have been. Their vacation had been planned for months. She and Spock had both assumed Jim would not want to see Harriman taking command.

They were wrong. He asked Spock, who had to say they had plans. He had to turn his friend down and then Jim was lost. And she's paid for that ever since.

Why doesn't Spock have to pay? He gets to fuck her former best friend and come home as if everything is all right?

"I understand she must have been hurting, too." Not that she reached out to Christine very hard. They held each other at the memorial, but she was concentrating on Spock. On helping him get ships to go out and search when he needed them—although she wonders now if Christine didn't do more on that front than she did. Christine has more access, more friends high up.

Christine didn't homestead on one ship, under one captain.

Christine, goddamned her soul, has a career, not a home. Jim and the crew and the ship were Nyota's home. And now the prodigal sister is taking it all away.

"I want to make this better between us." She reaches for his hand and is gratified when he doesn't pull away, but then realizes he may just want to read her emotional state. So she stops just before they touch. If he wants to use her, let him do the reaching.

Their eyes meet; his are softer, she thinks, than hers.

"Do you want to leave me?" she asks, the tone the half husky, half little girl one that men respond best to. The one that says, "Protect me and I'll show you heaven in my bed."

But some other woman is showing him that. Or at least oblivion, which may be what he prefers right now.

"Spock?"

She sees resolve in his eyes for a moment, then a glimmer of uncertainty. The order is confusing. Most people let resolve overcome uncertainty.

Is he unsure of Christine's feelings for him? That would be too rich.

But she'll milk it. "I love you. I know we can get past this."

"Can we?" He seems to be studying her, then reaches out and takes her hand, holding it gently. What he feels from her seems to surprise him. "You think we can."

She's sending him as much love as she can. She's sending him resolve. She's thinking of every happy thing she can at this moment. The first time they made love in her apartment on a lazy winter day when the fog had rolled in. The way he'd smiled—a real smile—when he asked her to marry him on Risa.

All the times on the bridge, when he made her feel safe.

The way she wants to protect him. To love and cherish and take care of him, the way he should be cared for.

What can Christine offer him that she can't? She lets him feel that, too. Confusion. Why would he ever choose Christine over her?

She lets go of his hand and gets up, slipping into his lap and kissing him softly. "I know we can, if we both want to. Years down the road, we'll look back on this and ask, 'Christine who?'"

She feels him tense. That last part might have been too much. But then he's pushing his forehead against her shoulders. He isn't apologizing. She'll have to wait for that. But he's surrendering, she thinks, to the possibility that the couple who will endure is the two of them, not he and Christine.

And for now, that's enough.

* * *

 _Christine_

I sit in the exam room of a special section of Starfleet Medical where you go after missions that are slightly less regulation than others, and stare down where the tiny scratch across my shin was before I regenerated the skin. The scratch that let the sickness in. I know what the diagnosis is before the doctor comes in, his eyes looking everywhere but me, but his reticence—discomfort, even—confirms it. "Silestyan?"

He nods, and seems grateful he doesn't have to deliver the diagnosis.

He won't have to deliver the prognosis, either. I know, you see. I know because I've diagnosed it in the few who've ever come down with it.

They were on my team. On a planet inside the neutral zone. Where we technically were not supposed to be. It was a volunteer-only mission. But the people needed help, and the Romulans showed no inclination to assist them.

Silestyan virus was endemic on the planet. Many of the people had resistance to it from exposure as children to Romulans. Humans were not so lucky. And with it not being a sickness that shows up in Federation space, our researchers don't spend time finding a cure.

Especially when it's only found on worlds that Starfleet isn't going to own up to having had personnel on.

They can't heal us. The most they can do is freeze us until a cure is found.

I laugh and the doctor looks at me with concern.

"I won," I tell him, knowing he won't understand. But I've known I won since that day Spock wanted to meld. I was shocked—and not entirely happy with the idea of melding with him when he's with her—and I ran from it and from him. But I've won.

And now I won't live to enjoy it. Or rather, I won't be awake to enjoy it.

"You need to get into cryo as soon as possible, Commander."

"Doctor." This time, for this conversation, I want to be Doctor Chapel.

"Of course, Doctor." He sighs. "I wish..."

"Yeah, I wish, too. I have friends already in cryo." It took longer to manifest in me. Not sure why, maybe the immune system boosters some of us were trying out? Who knows? For whatever reason, I thought I'd been spared.

Fate has a way of laughing at me that you'd think I'd be used to by now.

I touch the doctor's shoulder as he starts to walk out, to get the forms started for cryo. "This is all very sensitive." Even now I keep the secrets; this many years in ops, I can't stop.

"I'm cleared for you ops types. I don't want to know where you got this, but unfortunately I have a pretty good idea. But don't worry: I'm good at keeping my mouth shut." Then he puts his hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry, Chapel."

"Well, who knows? Maybe I'll get to see the future?" I smile, and he looks as if he thinks I'm brave, but really I'm just being me. I gave up on happy endings a long time ago. Now I settle for balls and bluster.

I comm Spock without thinking where he might be. It doesn't matter anymore. He told me the last time he was with me, just before I shipped out and picked up this nasty bug, that she knows about us, but she wants to keep him anyway. This is a good thing. He won't be alone.

He answers immediately. "Are you all right?"

He was the one who sensed something amiss with my system. When he touched me the last time we made love—and I can't just call it fucking anymore. He made love to me, and as he ran his hands over and down, he stopped, where the little scratch had been and asked me if I'd had myself checked out.

A regular scanner didn't find it, or I'd have found it myself. And I'd been checked at the same time as my teammates. The boosters apparently masked the virus's signature. Irony.

Or fate, again, laughing uproariously at me.

"Christine?" I can hear the concern in his voice. I know I can't talk about this on an open channel.

"I'm not all right. Can we speak face to face?"

"Yes."

"I'm at Medical. Come and walk me home." It's indulgent and stupid. But we're old shipmates. There's nothing wrong with old shipmates meeting up in the hall and leaving together. "I'll be at the entrance."

"I am on my way." The comm line goes dead and I laugh, because he's not being rude, he's just on his way.

I sit as I wait for him. I sit and ponder cryo sleep. Some people dream. Some people have nightmares. Some simply experience a dreamless, timeless peace after the initial phase-in period. I know all this because I worked on a cryo project after I left the ship after V'ger. It was where I met Cartwright. He was especially interested in it for uses during an emergency, especially when we had wounded we could evacuate but not treat.

Cartwright, who's rotting in Rura Penthe. I miss him so. He's a traitor, but he was good to me, the best mentor I ever had. I refused to disavow his impact on my life and for a few months after Khitomer, my life was hell. But then things settled down, and life moved on as it does.

I see Spock coming quite quickly down the hall, not running exactly, but hurrying. He looks like he might if it were Jim who asked him to come. If it were Jim who wasn't all right.

I think in some ways I've merged with Jim in Spock's mind. It's not just me he's fucking. Although maybe I'm being unfair to him. Because it does seem that he has feelings that are just for me.

I get up and head to the door, meeting him there, and he puts his hand on my elbow, steering me out. Normally I'd think it was to read me, but we're both in uniform. He can read nothing through this much fabric. He just...he just wants to touch me. In public. Where anyone could see.

"Christine?"

"Not here. At my place." Which is swept regularly for bugs. Because we see so much in ops and this keeps information safe. I've wondered a time or two if the people sweeping for surveillance also place some—do they watch us? Have they seen Spock and I, joined together, on the couch, in the shower, on the floor by the door because we couldn't wait to get to the bedroom?

He palms open the door to the building but stops and looks back.

"Is she there?" He's told me she followed him. Not that it matters now.

"I do not believe so."

When we reach my apartment, he palms that open, too, and again, his hand is on my elbow. So solicitous.

Can it be that he loves me?

Fate is once again spitting on me if that's true.

I pull him into the living room, sit next to him on the couch, and say, " Silestyan virus. Have you heard of it?"

His face freezes and his eyes seek mine. There's hopelessness in his. "Where could you have—" But he stops because of course he knows where I could have gotten it. Or at least how. A relief mission we weren't supposed to do but did anyway.

"There's no cure, Spock. Not here anyway. The Romulans have one, but we can't ask them, obviously."

"I have a contact. I trust him deeply."

"Is he high up?"

"Moderately so."

"Then you can't ask him. They can't even suspect where we were." Because Starfleet might send others. The planet has a great deal of strategic minerals, and the people would be happy to share them with the Federation in exchange for protection. They're close enough to the border of the neutral zone that their planet could go either way, and they're tired of Romulan predations on their bounty with little but neglect otherwise.

"Christine, I assure you my associate can be trusted." He's touching my neck as he talks, playing with my hair in a way that I think brings him comfort. "I can help you. Possibly cure you."

I smile, and I know it's a smile of amazement. He's passionate about this. I should, by now, be a millstone around his neck. The mistress he buried his pain in, not someone he wants to save. "I love that you want to. But you can't." I put my forehead to his, press gently, and whisper, "The needs of the many..."

I hear his sigh of defeat. "I love you," he says, and it hangs out there, but then he pulls away and tilts my chin up and waits until I meet his eyes to say, "Christine, I _love_ you."

"I love you, too. But we don't have a future. You need to go home to Nyota. You need to build a life with her." And I know she'll welcome him back. "Choose her before it's announced that I'm 'lost.'" I nuzzle in because I see the word hits too hard. Lost like Jim. Lost like Scotty. One more person to lose with no body.

"Lost," he echoes, his voice forlorn.

"It's how it has to be. Only presumed dead so that maybe someday I can come back." I know he knows this. I just have to say it. For my own sake.

"Christine, do not cry."

Shit. Am I crying? I don't let him see me cry. But now I am and maybe it doesn't matter anymore. "I don't want to go to sleep. I could have you, couldn't I?"

He nods, pressing against me.

And we sit still. I know how this will go. Someone pretending to be me will requisition a ship that will crash in a way leaving only fragments. The person piloting will make their way to some other, more shadowy part, of Starfleet when this is over.

I will never be in the ship; I'll be at a cryo center under a name that's not mine.

"Christine Chapel will cease to exist," I murmur. "But a friend of mine runs the cryo center the others were sent to. It's in Berkeley."

"I know the one." He nods against me, holding me tightly. "I will find you once I have the cure."

I can see he won't let this go, and I know better than to push him—but there are other ways to get him to do what I want. "Spock, if they think you have compromised anything, I might disappear." I don't mean they'd kill me, but they would move me. I'd as good as vanish.

I can tell by his expression that he can feel that I believe it.

"I will be circumspect."

I accept his word. There's more he needs to hear. "You have to choose Nyota before anything's announced. She has to think she's beaten me, not won you by default." It's the side of her she thinks I don't understand. But it's my job to understand what makes people tick. I've always known the real Nyota Uhura is very far from the sweet and soft façade she puts on.

"Why do you want me with her?"

"Because if I can't have you, she should. Because she was my best friend and I owe it to her. Because I can't bear to think of you alone. All of the above, really."

He strokes my cheek, and his fingers linger over the meld points.

"Spock, don't. I can't bear it. And I don't think you'll be able to, either."

"I do not meld with her." He looks lost. "I will not meld with her."

It's the only thing he can give me. But I'll take it.

"You can never tell anyone what's really happened to me. I'm not supposed to say goodbye to anyone. It has to look real." I pull him to me, nuzzling his neck. "But there was no way I wouldn't tell you." I say that at full voice, so if there are people watching us, they'll know I knew it when I said it. That I trust this man, and they can, too.

He pulls me onto him, straddling him, and we kiss for a long time, in a way I don't remember us doing before. The kisses are almost playful, even in the desperation that surrounds all these last touches.

"I love you, Spock." I trace the tips of his ears, and he closes his eyes.

"Do you love me more than Jim?" He opens his eyes and seems to want to watch whatever thought processes I'm letting show on my face.

"I was in love with you longer."

It's not an answer to the question he's asked, but it's the only one I can give him. Did I love Jim? Absolutely. Did I love him more than I do Spock? No. But at this point, who cares?

And if I tell Spock I do love him more, then he might not stay with Nyota. I know him, after all. I know he wallows. Let him plunge his pain into her body this time.

I'll be unavailable. Forever, possibly.

"If the Federation or Starfleet do not find a cure, I will." As I open my mouth to protest, he covers it with his hand. "No. I will be careful. I will not compromise anyone. But I will find it."

"You should let me go. That would be the smartest thing. Nyota loves you, and I think you love her. You loved her before you loved me."

He looks as if he is weighing whether to tell me something.

"What? What is it?"

But then he shakes his head. He looks away as he murmurs, "You are no doubt wise."

"Just don't go back to her right this minute." I begin to pull off his clothing, and he does the same for me, and then I rise up and settle down onto him...there. "I'll miss this," I murmur, even if it's probably not true. If I'm lucky, I'll be one of the non-dreamers, not missing anything. Although dreaming of this moment would be nice: a love that lasts forever.

He holds me more tightly than usual, kisses me more, bringing me orgasm after orgasm, enough to last a lifetime.

We eventually move to the bed and when, finally sated, he lets us rest, I ask softly, "Can I ask you something stupid?"

He looks over, his eyes tender, his touch on my lips so very gentle. "I would have left her. I would have chosen you."

"Thank you." I don't know if it's a lie, but I don't think he's smart enough emotionally to know to do that, or maybe I just think he's too Vulcan to lower himself to lie.

Then again, he's going back to a woman he would have left for me. So maybe he's human enough to say whatever I need to hear, whatever will make this bearable for both of us.

When we finally leave the bed, it's late. We shower together and he reaches for my soap, as if he doesn't care how much that would hurt her.

I stop him and make him use his soap, the way he needs to. She's smart enough to see a reconciliation that comes with a slap like that for what it is: the crossed fingers of a child promising something he doesn't really mean.

She can't know that. Not if he's to have some kind of love in his life. And I want that for him. And for her, I guess. She was my friend, once.

This is the least—and the most—I can do for her.

"Be careful with the Romulans. They can't be trusted," I whisper as I hold him tightly as he gets ready to walk out of my place for the last time. Tomorrow morning I'll need to get things in order without looking like that's what I'm doing. Ops will have a special safety deposit bin for the things that really matter to me—but I can't take many of them or it won't look real. Everything else will be packed up and put in storage—or at least I think it will.

"I have faith in the Romulan I am working with," he says, and I can see in his eyes that this faith will keep him going far more than any love for Ny will.

And that makes me happy. God help me, that makes me so very happy.

* * *

 _Spock_

You sit at your terminal, staring at the weekly all-hands bulletin from Starfleet. "Senior Emergency Operations Officer Lost in Shuttle Explosion" is one of the headlines. Her name is in the article. You imagine she has worked with many officers at this point. Officers will click the link to the full article and mourn for a moment, or maybe longer, the loss of a fine member of the Fleet.

You think you should be able to sense when she goes into the cryo chamber. You may not have melded, but you did share consciousness, so many years ago now. You should be able to feel the lack of her, the same way you still get pings when Leonard is sick or hurt after placing your katra with him.

But you have felt nothing different.

You burn for her. Not literally, although your emotions are chaotic enough for this to be the Pon Farr. You want to go and find her and take her to Pardek and say, "Heal her, as a gesture of good faith." But you know you can't. For so many reasons.

"I'm home." Nyota's tone is light. She is happy because she has won, and you understand that Christine knew her far better than you do. Perhaps, in time, you will understand what drives her the way your lover did.

The way the woman you love did.

You know you should close the article, but you do not.

"What are you doing?" She's at the door.

"I am doing nothing." Nothing to help Christine. Nothing to stop this process of losing her to a disease, to a cure that is nothing but an inadequate solution.

"Well, someone's grumpy." She comes over, puts her arms around you, and you know she's reading the bulletin over your shoulder. "Oh, God. Spock."

There is actual pain in her voice, and you feel shock and grief and just the faintest trace of relief from where her arm is touching your neck. "Not another of us."

And you realize that is the pain she feels. Not that it is Christine, but that it is one of the crew. You want to push her off you, but instead you pull her around, bury your head in her neck, and murmur, "Yes, too many of us."

You feel triumph surging from her at your choice of words. You knew, that if Christine was right about this woman you are going to marry, you would. But you hoped for more. You hoped she would feel more for her friend. Or for you?

"Do you want some time alone?" She is giving you that, her voice generous, her kiss sweet. She is giving you time to mourn your former mistress.

She has no idea you started mourning Christine from the moment she told you she had contracted Silestyan.

"I believe I will go for a walk."

She hugs you tightly and then gets up. "I love you."

"And I you." It is how you say it now. It is easier to say it that way. It is not a lie. You do love her—have always, as a crewmate, as a lovely friend. But you are not in love with her.

Perhaps, though. In time. You will be.

You leave the apartment, walking in no particular direction, and it takes you longer than it should to realize someone is following you. You are about to turn, when you hear a muttered, "Don't," and then a man is passing you, slipping as he does it, thrusting something in your hand. "They changed the location," he mutters, his head down and then says, "Sorry, clumsy of me," much more loudly and hurries off.

You crumple the paper in your grip and do not change the tempo of your steps, or the expression on your face. You let yourself appear to be troubled and deep in thought. You walk all the way to the Vulcan embassy, are waved in, and head for the chamber you know to be free of eavesdropping—human anyway.

You keep your head and body over your hands, mantling the small scrap of paper like a hawk over a kill so any cameras that are in this room won't see what you are looking at.

All it says is, "Marina Talbot" and "CCDOax."

You walk out, to the woman who serves as a concierge and general assistant, and ask softly, "May I use your terminal?"

"Of course, Spock." She signs off, and gives you space, heading for the refreshment area, and you quickly sign in and search cryo centers and enter a disease only Vulcans contract, for which cryo is often the best option since researchers are close to a cure.

There are a large number of Vulcan centers you need to scroll past but then you see the list of known centers on Earth and nearby Federation worlds. You realize she could be at a black site, but believe in this case, Starfleet has no reason not to just hide her in plain sight.

Cryo-Center Deluxe Oaxaca gets your attention. You elect not to select it, but you do select several others, all on Vulcan.

By the time the assistant gets back, you have also searched other treatment options and katra ceremonies. You sign out, clearing the system of your search history, but if anyone is watching traffic, which you doubt, they will see only the most normal—if disagreeable—of queries.

"Is my mother in?"

"No, she and the ambassador have gone out." She looks as if she does not understand why you would not comm first to ascertain their presence.

"I was in the area. I thought I would check. Thank you for the use of your terminal."

"Of course. Peace and long life, Spock."

"And to you."

You leave the embassy and walk for a long time, then you go into a market, buy Nyota's favorite color roses, and take them home to her.

She cries when she sees them, and says, "Oh, Spock," as she pulls you in. You feel more grief than pleasure and she murmurs, "She was my best friend, before..."

"I know." It is all you can say. You know you have come between them.

"I miss her." There is truth to the statement; she is not lying for your benefit.

And in the sadness you feel for her—real sadness this time, for her friend, you find some peace.

It is the reason you will stay with her. Because there is so much good in her. You should have been satisfied with that. You should have stayed true to her—perhaps Christine would have made different choices on missions and not contracted a disease.

But no. You do not know that there is any causal nature of your relationship and her sickness. She was probably chosen because she was the best qualified to lead such a mission.

"I'm going to put these in water. Thank you, Spock." And then she is gone and you are left, the piece of paper still in the pocket of your robe.

Nyota has turned on the fireplace, and you walk to it and drop the paper in.

It burns to nothing as you watch.

* * *

 _Nyota_

She sits next to Spock at the memorial for Christine and tries to square her feelings. There is a deep well of grief but it is covered over, as if by a net, of resentment—even hatred.

This woman that she called her friend is dead, and that makes her sad. But this woman that she called her friend fucked her fiancé and that enrages her.

"Such a loss," someone says as they sit behind her. "She was going to make captain—I just know it. I worked with her on an emergency. Such strong moral fiber."

This is news to her and it irritates her that no one is looking at her and thinking Starfleet should make her captain. She wants to turn around and ask if strong moral fiber includes fucking someone else's man, but of course she doesn't.

Christine is now Saint Christine, and there's nothing she can do about that without embarrassing Spock and herself, too.

Janice sits next to her, Sulu following her in. They hug and she wishes she'd told Jan before this happened what Christine had done to her. If she tells her now, it's only her words against the memory of Christine. It won't work. She's a master of framing a message in a way people will receive, and she knows she needs to swallow the bitterness and anger and just pretend to be what she's not: the dead woman's closest friend.

Or one of them.

"She followed Jim," Janice says.

She wants to look at her like she's fucking nuts. Christine didn't follow him. She barely waited for him to be gone before taking up with someone new—someone who was taken. But she keeps her eyes down, as if the emotion is too much, and murmurs, "She did."

She wants to vomit. More and more as fellow crew come in, Pavel and Leonard—but no Scotty.

He was lost, on his way to retirement. This is how it will be now. Less and less of them remaining.

She glances at Spock. She loves him in a way she never loved Scotty. And things are better now with Spock. She doesn't feel as if Christine lives between them anymore. She doesn't have to be hard and unpleasant, can fall back into the role she prefers. Doting fiancée, sweet-tempered woman, consummate professional who still has a life outside of Starfleet.

The CINC gets up. The fucking _CINC_? The crowd quiets as he looks out at them, then gestures toward the picture of Christine that is on the projection screens. "Commander Christine Chapel saved my life. I imagine there are many of us—many more beyond these walls—who can say the same thing."

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. This is Christine's day. Her _last_ day. Let her be canonized. Worshipped, even, as some goddess of mercy and comfort. She knew the real woman, and the picture was far more complex and far less complimentary.

But she leans into Janice, as if this hurts, as if she is feeling too much, and Janice lean backs, murmuring, "I miss her."

"I miss her, too," she says.

Lying, after all, is recommended at a memorial. She wants to tune out the speakers and focus on the wedding that she's planning. But that might leave her exposed—mute and dull when she should be laughing at a wry story or crying at the selflessness of her fiancé's lover. So she pays attention and does what she does best.

Puts on a mask and acts out the part. Until it's over, the ceremony, and then the reception, and then the trip to the bar with just the crew.

She gets home and kisses Spock gently, then watches him walk into his study and close the door, clearly saddened.

And then she goes into their bedroom, takes off the black dress, and throws it into the recycler. She never wants to see that garment again.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: _I Don't Like My Mind Right Now_

 _Spock_

You are not usually given to fantasy, but you indulge yourself and think of Christine as you sit in this auditorium, listening to speakers that offer nothing you do not already know. But Starfleet insists officers attend this training yearly and so you are here.

The seat next to you is empty. You saved it for Nyota as she asked you to, but she has yet to make an appearance. You close your eyes, imagining how she will smell when she comes in, the faint whiff of fragrance that is not her perfume, but a man's cologne.

She thinks she is hiding this affair from you. You never meld and you have said nothing to indicate you suspect her. You and she have lived together in what you thought was harmony. Six years of that. But something changed with her last assignment.

You could easily discover his name if you wished. You find you do not care enough to trouble yourself. She is not denying you sex—in fact, the guilt that washes from her skin when you touch her makes her particularly generous with some forms of intimacy.

And you have never stopped thinking of Christine. Although you try not to do it when you are making love to your wife. So maybe it is fair that she is finally paying you back for your indiscretion.

 _Marina Talbot. Oaxaca._ It is a meditation mantra now. Who Christine is. Where she is. Sleeping. Dreaming of you, perhaps? Or of Jim or Roger. You would prefer she not dream at all than be living some fantasy of other men. It is primitive and it concerns you because eventually the Pon Farr will come upon you. And you are not sure if your body, when it is operating on primitive emotion alone, will want to go to Oaxaca and wake up your mistress or...make due with the woman you married.

The woman who is slipping into the seat next to you. "Did they miss me?" she asks, so low that only a Vulcan could hear her.

You lean in, your mouth to her ear. "I signed you in." There is no trace of cologne. You let an eyebrow rise as you ponder this. "Where were you?"

"Crisis counseling. Saavik—I'll tell you later. Everything's fine now."

And this is one of the reasons you have never entertained leaving her. That, if you are fair to her, you are not just making due but are actually happy. The part of you that is not primitive, that is rational and capable of weighing positive to negative, loves her. You appreciate the deep affection she has for the woman you consider your daughter, and the easy rapport she has with your mother. Even your father seems less stiff with her around.

Although it took time. Your father preferred Christine and made every attempt to steer you her way. As usual, you resisted anything he wanted you to do and lost her because while you were rebelling, she went to Jim.

You will never tell your father that, of course. He need never know how right he was.

It occurs to you that you misjudged Nyota. You were so sure she was with her lover when she was not. Is it over? Has she grown tired of this man—or has her guilt made her back away?

But then the door opens again, and a man passes your aisle seat, the cologne all too familiar. He is at least a decade her junior. As he sits, he looks around, his gaze coming to you and he seems to blanche.

You do not look away. You want him to see that you know—that you do not appreciate the liberties he is taking with your wife.

You realize you are clenching your fists and slowly open them. Perhaps the Pon Farr will not be a problem at all. This reaction to your wife's lover is anything but rational. In fact, you want to pull him apart. Slowly.

You force yourself to look away, focus on the speaker, on the useless information coming out of his mouth.

You hear Nyota breathe, "Are you all right, Spock?"

You turn, raise an eyebrow in the most playful manner that you can, and nod slightly.

She smiles, but it is an uncertain expression. Then her eyes dart to the side—to her lover—and you lean in and, in the lowest voice you think she will hear, say, "I know. It is only fair, I suppose. I did it to you, after all."

She tenses but meets your eyes as you ease away. She is obviously confused by the dichotomy of the way your voice sounded and the easy expression you are giving her. But she will not back down—she never backs down. And you think that is one of the things you admire most about her.

"Later," she mouths, and you nod just enough to indicate you agree. Then you go back to thinking of other things.

Of other people.

Of one other person.

 _Marina Talbot. Oaxaca._

* * *

 _Nyota_

She glances over at William. He doesn't look her way, not once, not since he and Spock had their "whatever that was" stare down.

Only, she knows what it was. Spock just told her what it was.

She is screwing this young—well, younger—man who admires her and thinks she's beautiful, and her husband is fully aware of it.

And he's not happy.

And just maybe, he also doesn't care.

This is the problem with Vulcans. So much is rooted in possession. She's his but is he hers? That's what has always troubled her. It's what, if she's honest with herself, allowed her to let William in.

She has never, ever cheated on someone she loved. And now she does it with impunity.

But not with a light heart. She wasn't lying to Spock about crisis management with Saavik. But afterwards, she stopped in at the chapel, where she goes often and always has.

She thinks he has no idea how much time over the years she's spent in chapels. God is not something they talk about, primarily because he can dissect anything into being illogical, and she doesn't want her faith to be examined under a microscope. It's like Jim's instincts at command were: something that makes no sense logically but works nonetheless.

As she sat in the pew, staring at her favorite stained glass window, she saw one of the chaplains come out from the office areas. Do they have an alert when someone comes into the place? They always seem to come out when she walks in, an unobtrusive presence if not needing, going back into the office and leaving her in peace.

But this time she looks up and gives the man a wavering smile—the kind she's fully aware says: "I need help."

He comes over and sits next to her. "That's my favorite window, too." He gestures at the one she's been staring at.

"It's been here as long as I have. Even survived the whale probe."

He laughs softly. "Yes, it did." They sit in silence for a moment, then he says, "If you don't need company, I'll leave you alone."

"I need advice—or maybe just an ear." She turns to look at him. "I need to know what to do—what's right."

He studies her. "It's been my experience that many times, when people say that, they know exactly what's right. And it's generally not what they're doing."

"That's true, isn't it?" Sighing, she turns to the window. "I'm betraying someone I love. But the thing is, he did it first."

"I see."

"With a friend of mine. Who I hate—hated. I can't hate her anymore, can I? Because I'm just like her." Only William isn't married. She's not stealing him from anyone. But she's taken. So that's worse.

Shit, it's so much worse. Christine was with Spock before she was married to him. She was with William despite being married.

"I love my husband."

"Do you like him?"

She shrugs, unsure where he's going with the question.

"If I understand what you're saying, you're being unfaithful to your husband."

"Yes," she whispers so softly he can choose to ignore it.

"Sometimes, when we crave intimacy, it isn't the sexual kind. How much do you and your husband have in common?"

"Not that much." William makes her laugh. William makes her feel...smart. "But he's kind to me. And I love his family. I have a family because of him. My parents died when I was young, and I have no siblings."

"So you would lose far more than a husband if he were to find out."

"Yes." And she thinks William won't last. He's enamored now, but he's still young enough to have a family if he marries someone his own age. "I want to keep what I have."

That sums up so much of her life. And why she hangs on when others move on. Because she had so little growing up that was hers, everything that does belong to her takes on such significance and value.

"It's wrong to cheat." She sighs. There. She's said it. It wasn't wrong, when it started, when she was lonely and Spock seemed particularly distant—and absent. Away on one diplomatic mission after another. She might as well have been single.

But he's more engaged now. Although maybe that's just the Pon Farr finally coming on.

Whatever his reason, he's present. And she needs to be, too.

She gives the chaplain a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"You did all the heavy lifting."

"But you spotted me." She grins and he does too, and she wonders who this man is who listens with such tranquil support. She holds out her hand. "I'm Nyota."

"Carl." He takes her hand and squeezes it gently before letting it go. "I'm married, too. The road with another is wonderful—except when it's not. But if it were easy, it wouldn't be worth having."

"Yes." She waits until he is gone, then pulls out her comm unit.

William should be in the auditorium, but he's probably not. He's probably hanging back since she did, too. Hoping they can find time to be together.

She's the only one in the chapel, so she comms him. He picks up immediately.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispers.

There's long silence and then he says, "Okay."

And that's that. It's over. No fuss, no muss. She feels like an idiot.

But then a text message comes in. _Just tell me why._

She knew it was wrong to feel better that he did care that she broke up with him, but she did feel better. She typed out: _Because I love my husband._

She pulls out the comm unit now, brings up the texts, letting them sit there, just the two, and hands it to Spock.

He reads it and goes very still. The way only a Vulcan feeling something very strongly does. And then he turns to her, his eyes softer than she's seen in years.

He mouths, "I love you, too." In the middle of an auditorium. Granted, they're in the back and the lights are dimmed. But still, such a declaration. She smiles, and feels tears well, and wants to take him and go home and make love the way they haven't in such a long time.

They've just had sex. She knew it and now she knows he knew it, too.

To her surprise, he takes her by the hand long enough to get her rising, to follow him, to take her elbow and almost push her up the stairs. They aren't sneaking—anyone can see them leave—but they are sneaking, and she's already calling a flitter to come get them.

One shows up immediately, no doubt dropping someone off at Command, and they pile in and it's off.

She takes his hand. "Spock, I'm so sorry."

He closes his eyes, and for some reason she thinks he's letting go of something. And he murmurs, opening his eyes so she can see they're clear and sure and loving, "I, too, am sorry."

"I wasn't sure you'd care. I mean when I started it."

"I care. I care deeply."

"I want to walk this road with you, Spock. All the way to the end." She isn't sure he'll follow, but he seems to.

He nods and says, "Yes. To the end."

* * *

 _Spock_

You hear familiar footsteps, look up from your breakfast at the diplomatic conference, and see Pardek approaching with a plate laden with food.

"My friend. It is good to see you—and all this wonderful food. I do love breakfast." He is almost falsely jovial, but you nod pleasantly and then, as he sits, he murmurs, "All things progress, my brother."

You feel a surge of satisfaction. Pardek is finding those who think like you both do. Romulans who are tired of being kept from their own heritage, who long to hear of the ways of Surak, of logic and intellect over subterfuge and emotions.

"That pleases me," you barely vocalize, knowing his ears are as keen as your own.

He begins to tear into the food, and you know his enjoyment is sincere, not feigned. He looks around and nods because you have chosen a table far enough away from the buffet and beverages that you do not believe others will elect to join you—but they could if they wanted to.

"The last time we talked, Spock, you indicated you needed something."

The last time you talked to him, you had just discovered Nyota had taken a lover. You realize now you were hurt—reeling, even, from discovering her betrayal. Ironic, you know, since you betrayed her, but you did it before pledges were made.

You were going to ask Pardek if he knew of a cure for Silestyan because you wanted Christine back. If Uhura had her lover, you wanted yours.

Fortunately, your meeting with Pardek was brief and afforded no time to talk at length. Christine would be livid if you compromised Federation security merely to awaken her because you were hurt by your wife.

You are appalled now that you even considered it. You were compromised but did not realize how much.

How much you truly care for your wife. How badly she hurt you.

But that is over. And your life now is good. And you have no right to endanger anything, not even for Christine. "I no longer need the favor. Although in the future, I might."

"Ask and it shall be given—if it's in my means to give." Pardek grins and goes back to eating. Then he stops and studies you. "You seem...lighter. Did something happen?"

You allow your mouth to almost tick up, an expression he will appreciate. "Domestic trouble has been resolved."

"Don't tell me you were cheating on your lovely wife." He's met Nyota at banquets, and made much of her. There is something in his eyes, though. Something that you are not sure how to read.

Pardek's preferences have never been entirely clear to you. You believe that, if you were to indicate interest, he would oblige.

"Nothing of the sort," you say, lying in the way every other species assumes Vulcans cannot.

And he seems to accept that. "Good. I'd have to wonder about your judgment if you did."

It does not seem to occur to him that Nyota would ever cheat on you. Because she is devoted to you in his mind, no doubt.

And in reality, she is. She left her other man for love of you. She is a woman of fine character. Your domestic life is full and peaceful, your regard for your wife true.

The Pon Farr, which could have broken you, instead brought you closer coming so quickly on the heels of her abandoning her lover. If you gave any thought to Christine during the burning, it was momentary.

Which does not mean you would not choose her if she had been there, in body, not just a memory. But it also does not mean you would.

You realize Pardek has said something and say, "I beg your pardon?"

"I only said it must be difficult, marrying someone with a lifespan so different than our own. Your father did it also."

And your mother is sick. But you will not tell Pardek that because she and your father have asked the family not to speak of it. She does not want pity.

Nyota has spent more time with her, talking and sitting in the garden, the two of them so still and soft. You do not like to think that Nyota will die someday and you will have to go on.

Then again, you have already died once. It is hubris to think you will live forever. She might well outlive you.

But your mother will not outlive your father. She has spoken to you, told you to be kind when—not if—he marries again.

"He is not a man who can be alone, Spock." Her voice was full of love, not pain, not anger. "You must accept her."

You do not think you must do anything, other than enjoy the time you have left with your mother.

But for now, you push that out of your mind. "And your family, Pardek? They prosper?"

Pardek smiles and tells you of them, of his home in the Krocton segment, of his aspirations to run for public office, even the senate.

It would be beneficial to have a Romulan senator espousing the cause of unification. Most beneficial, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3 - _Because I Can't Escape the Gravity_

 _Nyota_

She bounces Saavik's baby on her knee, trying to ignore the near-constant shooting pain from joints asked to carry her for too long. When she looks in the mirror, she doesn't recognize the woman looking back. Gray hair and lined face—she saw that once, on the _Enterprise_. An illusion, then. Not so, now.

She is old. Old and tired and probably going to die soon.

Spock, meanwhile, looks older but not old. Still vital. Still so handsome. She's never regretted her choices, leaving William, pledging herself anew to her husband.

And he is _her_ husband. Christine never had that. She likes to tell herself that Spock would eventually have let Christine go the same way she let her lover go.

She likes to tell herself many things. Some aren't true.

The baby laughs, and she glances at Sarek to see what he thinks of that. He looks on with a sort of resigned forbearance. The child's father is human. Not what she foresaw for the girl she considers her daughter, but Saavik has always walked her own path.

Saavik is sitting with Clint, over by the fire, probably glad to get a break from this adorable little monster that Nyota can't get enough of. She always wanted children of her own, but it was not to be. Of all the regrets in her life, that is the strongest. But this little angel is helping change that.

He adores her. He giggles every time she talks to him and he loves her singing.

"You're good with him. He won't hold still for me." Perrin sits, her grace the kind of practiced perfect that Amanda just seemed to possess naturally.

"Sulek's an adorable baby. You've just got to know how to treat him." She closes her eyes at how sharp her tone is. They're all making this woman pay for taking Amanda's place. It's probably not fair, but she was Sarek's intern and still seems so young.

She thinks it jars all of them, seeing him with her. If he's aware, he's not letting on. He probably thinks they'll have no choice but to accept her once enough time goes by. Especially since she's born him a son who appears to thrive on Vulcan and under his father's tutelage, unlike either of his brothers.

She forces a smile and tries again. "How do you find Vulcan, Perrin?" She knows how she finds it. Hotter than shit and hard to breathe. Thank God for tri-ox.

"It is a place of great peace."

"Or just great quiet. I find a chapel full of song more peaceful." She's been going to church a lot lately. Probably trying to wash her ledger clean before it's time to meet her maker. But has she been that bad? In all her life, she's tried to be kind, to be good, to make a difference.

"You're religious?" There's a sneer in Perrin's voice.

"I take it you're not."

"There's no logic in faith in some grand, benevolent deity."

She just laughs. This is an old argument she's had with Sarek, and she can hear his words in the way Perrin parrots it back, like a dutiful little sponge.

Spock doesn't mock her. He understands the concept of faith, even if he chooses to put his faith in causes and people, not deities.

"You know what they say, sugar. Never discuss religion or politics in polite company."

Perrin seems unsure where to go with that.

She takes pity on her, tries to make her voice as war as possible. "Are you happy, honey?"

For a moment, she sees resistance, as if the endearment calls up bad associations instead of good. But then Perrin nods, and her smile is a pretty thing—too bad they so rarely see it—and says, "I'm very happy. But that's not a Vulcan thing to admit."

"You're not Vulcan, ergo..." She studies her, deciding that it wasn't her beauty that drove Sarek to her. She's a little plain. No one you would notice in a crowd.

Christine might have been that way, too, if her energy hadn't plowed ahead of her. Her energy and a sensuality that Nyota sometimes envied. She tried to play the seductress; Christine just was one.

Or slut. That label works, too.

She chuckles and the baby gurgles and reaches up to touch her lips. "You are a charmer, young man. When you grow up, no one will be safe from your wiles."

Spock comes out of the house and sits next to her. He's easier with the child than she expects and it charms her when they play a game, letting Sulek go from one to the other of them and then back.

"Have you had your tri-ox?" Spock asks in a hushed voice.

"Yes, stop mothering me." She grins to take away the sting and tickles Sulek. "I love him, Spock."

"I, too, find joy in his presence."

"Joy? Really, Spock?" Perrin's voice is arch, as if she's gotten something over on him.

Spock ignores her. It's rude, but it's what he agreed to do. The last time they sparred, he verbally eviscerated Perrin at the dinner table. Nyota has asked him to not do that, out of respect for his father and his new stepmother, even if he doesn't like her. "Say nothing if you can't say something nice."

The old homilies are so useful. She feels herself growing sleepy, and says, "I believe I'll go in for a while."

He gets up, slinging the child over one hip and offering her his arm. As they pass Saavik, he hands Sulek back.

Clint looks up, a frown on his handsome face. "Is she all right?"

"I am, Doctor. Be a guest, not a caregiver." She winks at him, wondering if Saavik was drawn to him because he has dark skin like hers.

But that's silly. Saavik took forever to choose a mate. She had no problem with no-attachment relationships, but finding someone who mattered enough to marry, to have a child with, that took a long time.

Nyota thinks that's due to her. The talks they had. The wisdom she tried to provide. That it's okay to wait. Get what you need and move on, and then someday, the one you really are meant for will find you.

Even if you've known him most of your life.

She nestles into Spock as they walk into the house. Once in their bedroom, she lets him help her into bed and says, "Spock. I don't think I like Perrin."

"You have indicated that before."

"Well, today I really don't like her." She studies him. "Will you remarry? Some Perrin of your own?" This is ground they've never covered. That they've steered carefully past over the years.

He sits on the bed and takes her hand. "I will not take an intern."

"There are other ways to meet chicks." She laughs at his expression. "Spock, it's all right, you know. I want you to love and be loved."

"I am. By you." His tone is perfect, but there's something in his eyes she can't read. He leans down and kisses her gently on the cheek.

It's been along time since they've been truly intimate. She'd like to, but her body protests even the idea of it.

"Nyota, I love you." There is nothing in his eyes now but the warmth and affection she has come to cherish. "I will never love another as I love you."

It's a good way to phrase it. Because really, every lover someone has is loved differently.

She decides to let it go. She's sleepy.

And at least Christine can't have him. It gives her solace, even if it's a mean-spirited sense of peace.

* * *

 _Spock_

You sit in front of your wife's grave. She wanted to be buried here, on Earth, where her family has been laid to rest for years. There are Uhuras and others scattered around the small cemetery.

You are hurting. Your life has a hole in it the size of the woman who has left you. Saavik and Clint have come over frequently because they seem to realize it is only Sulek who truly soothes you.

You stay far from Perrin and your father. You do not like her and want no platitudes from her—or your half-brother who can appear to do no wrong. You do not want to hear "I grieve with thee" from their lips. How can she possibly grieve? She is younger than Nyota was when you first met her.

You know your mother expected your father to remarry. But you think she would have been shocked at his choice. His intern?

A small voice in your head murmurs that Christine would have married her professor. Was that so different?

But Christine is not relevant here. She is safely in cryo and there has been no move to liberate or annex any world that would have the cure. If the Federation has any personnel on the worlds where the cure could be found, it is in a covert manner, and you cannot betray that.

The needs of the many...

You close your eyes, but then your communicator sounds. You answer, hear your father's voice, and feel rage rising up.

Your emotions, so volatile at this moment. You are compromised and you know it.

"Where are you? The debates on the Cardassian war are set to begin in one hour. I thought we would discuss strategy."

"You believe I favor your side?"

"Do you not?"

At this point, you can see the merits of both sides. But it is infuriating that your father must disturb you in this, your time of mourning. As if Nyota meant so little you can be rustled back to work on his whim.

You remember how he was when your mother died. He sequestered himself for several weeks, allowing his grief to flow freely if privately. Nothing roused him. No one was to disturb him.

"Perhaps, Father, it is preferable that I do not attend?" You state it as if it is a question, but you do not mean it as such. You wish to stay here, in this peaceful place, next to the body of the woman you have loved for decades.

The woman you made a life with. A true and good life.

A new voice on the communicator. "Spock, your father needs you. We expect you here within the hour." Then the line goes dead.

You stare at the communicator, sure your father will call again, that he will tell you she begs pardon for speaking to you as if she has some authority over you. But he does not call you back.

They want you there? Fine. Let them have what they want.

You time your arrival so there is no opportunity to discuss strategy. You sit at their table, nodding pleasantly to them and those around. You wait for Sarek to make his statement.

And then you counter it.

There is confusion in the ranks. Which of you to listen to? They are accustomed to Vulcan speaking with one voice, to their Vulcan diplomats being the ones to pay heed to.

But now you have given them an alternate path. One that you do not believe in any more than what your father espouses, but also do not believe in any less. You may be furious, but you would not sabotage Sarek's effort if his were clearly the superior solution.

Perrin turns to you. Her face has never been more Vulcan, but you see rage in her eyes. You force your own anger down and simply lift an eyebrow, a gesture that generally fans the fire of an infuriated human.

And in this case, it does. She leans in, her voice like that of a serpent, "Why would you do this? Why humiliate him?"

"My presence was demanded. I am here. What I choose to say or not say is entirely up to me and my conscience." You roll your chair back, the meaning clear.

You are moving away from her. She repels you. They both repel you.

You stand and speak loudly and as clearly as you can to those assembled. "I must apologize. I am in a period of mourning and am now returning to it. My remarks have been captured?" You look to the staff tasked with monitoring the recording devices and they nod. "Then I take my leave of you. Good day to you all."

And you sweep out, the way you have always admired your father for doing. You can feel his gaze on you, burning into you. He would stop you if doing so would not betray him.

Like those early days. When you defied him, and he punished you. And still you defied him again.

You will always defy him. He has never understood you. You feel a sudden longing for human women: your wife. Your mother.

And your lost lover.

You make your way to the Starfleet cemetery. An urn that you know is empty sits in a cabinet carved into the marble wall, glass keeping it safe from the elements. On the brass marker, it says it is Christine's final resting place. She is not there, but still, it is the closest you can come to her.

Your communicator buzzes with Saavik's tone and you pick it up immediately.

"Come home, Spock. Your room is ready, and Sulek misses his grandfather."

"Saavikaam." You remember the day you found the half-grown, feral child. Now she is the granter of succor, of peace and love. Did you know she would be? Is that why you took her in as your ward—as your daughter of heart, if not body—when others told you she would never be tamed?

Perhaps you did. Or perhaps, you were simply fortunate. In any case, there is nowhere else you would rather go. "I will be there shortly."

* * *

 _Perrin_

She sits dumbfounded next to a Sarek she's sure is furious. When she was younger, she thought she would just know these things, that she would be bonded to him. It was crushing to learn Vulcans cannot bond with humans unless they are exceptionally talented psychically.

She is normal that way. Excruciatingly normal.

She wants to reach out to Sarek, to touch his neck, and massage it the way he enjoys. But of course she doesn't. It would be most unseemly, and she's made it her life's work to be a good Vulcan wife, even if she is not Vulcan.

So instead she reaches for the mint tea—blessedly real mint here on Earth, instead of that dreck the Vulcans call mint—and sips it as if her stepson did not just run these proceedings off the rails.

Sarek stands slowly, and she looks up at him, trying to project assurance and faith. "My son has raised some interesting points. He is also...somewhat compromised with the death of his spouse."

She smiles into her tea. Sarek won't lose. He'll never lose and that's why she loves him. He's more than Spock can ever hope to be. She's grateful their son, Sarrin, has not followed in his brothers' footsteps of defying their father. He understands how fortunate he is to be the son of this great man and has followed the plan laid out for him, working now at the Vulcan Science Academy, married harmoniously to T'Pela.

Sarek takes a long breath, as if he too feels the weight of Nyota's death. Then he says, "We must forge on. We must follow one path—a house divided cannot stand."

"Is not your house divided, Sarek?" The Andorian ambassador is smirking.

She hates him so. Wants to hurl her teacup across the aisle at him and his aide. They love to undercut her husband.

"As I said, my son is not entirely himself."

The Andorian's smirk grows bigger, and she can feel her hands shaking.

"I suggest a recess for lunch," the representative from the President's office says, giving Sarek a look that clearly says, "In my office, now."

Perrin bites back a sigh.

Damn Spock. Damn him to hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4 - _If I Just Let Go, I'd Be Set Free_

 _Spock_

You are on a shuttle to Earth, a hypo wrapped in protective covering, carrying a serum it has taken you eighty years to safely get.

The cure for Silestyan. It fell into your lap, as McCoy might say. You were meeting with a group of Romulans and one of them was treating a patient with the disorder.

You knew Pardek was watching you as you tried to hide any reaction. Then he reached into the man's medical bag and handed you a hypospray. "I'm a senator now, Spock. I have access to a great deal. The Tal Shiar know of your affair with Commander Chapel—and her subsequent illness from being on Ramaya. Naughty Starfleet going there without permission." He laughs but then he smiles gently. "Just promise me that getting her back will not dim our cause in your heart."

You feel such affection and gratitude for him, the way you used to for Sybok, when he would protect you from the Vulcan bullies who tormented you, and walk you home. "I will not. I am committed to unification."

"Then I hope your reunion is sweet, my friend." He clasps your arm in the Romulan fashion. "My brother."

You transfer shuttles several times, finally get to Spacedock and beam down to Oaxaca. The walk to the location of the cryo center is short. A young woman looks up and smiles. "How may I help you, sir?"

You are not family, so you do what Jim would have. Fake it. "I am Ambassador Spock."

Her eyes shine. "I know, sir. I'm a fan."

"It is of the utmost urgency that we wake up a sleeper in your care."

"Which one?" She looks as if she wants to help you.

"Marina Talbot."

She searches her database, but then shakes her head. "I'm sorry, sir. She's not here."

"Where was she moved?"

"No, you don't understand. Her family claimed her, as was their right per the sleep agreement. Let me see if they woke her. Oh..."

You push in, but you cannot make out the screen—some kind of field prevents it from being read from the side.

The woman swallows visibly. "Her pod malfunctioned. Apparently she was sick and the illness progressed even though she appeared to be fully frozen. She was cremated, sir. Ashes scattered per request, this says."

"When?" How long has she been gone and you did not know it?

"Four years ago." She meets your eyes. "You knew her, didn't you?"

You nod. What is the point of lying?

She does something else to the terminal, muttering as she works. "Here it is. Her ashes were scattered over the Pacific Ocean. From Lake Merced Nature Reserve. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes." It is in San Francisco. Hide in plain sight. Or destroy in plain sight is more accurate.

The hypo bumps gently in the pocket of your robe.

"In your database, can you tell what illness she was suffering from?" Perhaps there are others here who could benefit from what you have brought back?

"No, sir. That's protected information. Only the sleeper and those they've told know."

So the cure is useless.

You thank the woman and leave, beaming to San Francisco, taking a flitter out to Lake Merced. You walk to the beach, remembering the way Christine looked as she told you she'd be sleeping until a cure was found.

Had it hurt? Dying that way? Had she been aware? Why did Starfleet not check on her? Why did they let this happen to a valued officer?

Why do you have to follow their lead if this is what they do to one who was nothing but faithful to their cause? You are tired of being circumspect of having to work Pardek and the journey toward reunification into your schedule.

They should be the only thing on your schedule.

The most logical step, if that is your goal, is to go to Romulus. To gather converts and work from the inside. To make a difference to the only thing left that is yours.

For a moment, you think of Saavik, of the child you consider a grandson. But it is not enough to hold you, not when—if you are honest—your heart is a torn and broken thing. You simply cannot weather another loss. It is time to turn your energy to this cause.

This cause will never hurt you.

You hear Christine's voice in your mind. "Don't do this, Spock. Don't lose your humanity."

She trusted Starfleet's humanity and look where it got her. You take out the hypo, tear off the protective wrapping that would make it float, and throw it hard, the water carrying it as the waves recede from the beach. It will sink, forever lost—just as she is.

You begin your preparations for relocating to Romulus as you sit on the sand, looking out at the waves.

Starfleet will think you have defected.

You could not care less.

* * *

 _Christine_

I wake, tears on my face, grabbing for the anesthesia mask that was the last thing I remember. That and the tears: I didn't want to go away, not when Spock could have been mine.

"Shhh," a female voice says. "It'll be all right. Just take it slow."

"When?"

"It is 0400," a voice that sounds almost mechanical says.

"No," I say, with a snap to my voice even though it sounds like it's made of gravel. "What's the date?"

A British voice this time. Soothing. "January fifteenth, 2372."

Holy shit. Nearly eighty years.

My next thought is for him. "Spock?"

"All will be explained in good time." The man is a blur; they all are.

"I can't see."

"It's a protective gel." The female voice. She must be a doctor.

And of course, they used the same type of gel we used during our cryo experiments. To keep moisture in the eye. The one we used had to be melted with a counteragent. "Give me the drops."

"Commander Chapel, I'll do it in a moment. Let me finish with your vitals."

" _Doctor_ Chapel." I hold out my hand and feel tubes coming with me. How many ports did we use? Three, four? I know my vitals are rising since I'm feeling panic coming over me.

This too was normal for those waking up from cryo.

"Jean-Luc, talk to her. I need to finish this."

"Commander Chapel. My name is Captain Picard. I'm with Starfleet. Please stay still."

"And quiet," the mechanical voice says. "There are guards in this vicinity."

"Guards?" I start to laugh, softly though. "You don't have authorization to wake me up, do you?"

"It's somewhat complicated." The British voice is full of humor but also warning. "But I made a promise to James T. Kirk that I would bring Spock home. Since I know he won't leave Romulus for me, you'll go get him."

"There isn't a single part of that sentence that made sense."

"I'll explain more once we're on the _Enterprise_. Please let Doctor Crusher work so we can get out of here."

I laugh again. Of course he's the captain of the _Enterprise_. Who else would run some harebrained scheme to kidnap Spock's lover out of cryo?

I run through a meditation they taught us in ops, breathing slowly, hearing Crusher say, "Good, yes, keep that up."

Then I feel things coming off me, tubes and God knows what else. Drops go in my eyes and the blurriness starts to resolve.

"We can go," Crushers says, and Picard murmurs, " _Enterprise_ , four to beam up."

The familiar feeling of a transporter whisks us away from wherever we were.

I'm put on a stasis gurney, and Picard walks with us to sickbay. The ship is so different than the one I remember, even if all I'm seeing are the corridors. But children are running by us.

Children? On a starship?

By the time we get to sickbay, I can sit up on my own and do, much to Crusher's chagrin.

"We have orders, Sir," a new voice and I turn to see a tall man with a beard. "Hello, Commander."

I nod, unable to fully make out the pips on his uniform, sure he'll forgive me given the circumstances.

"Let's get you walking. Jean-Luc, I'll comm you when she's ready to talk to you."

"Fine, Beverly. Number One, with me."

I swallow hard, feeling panic again.

"It must be overwhelming," she says softly. "Just relax and let me work, all right?"

So I do, and I feel a hiss, and smile. "Anti-anxiety meds?"

"Just call me Doctor Feelgood."

"That used to be my line." I have a feeling she and I would have gotten along great.

Time passes then, and I float a little, and when I open my eyes again, I can see clearly. A bald man is sitting on the stool next to the biobed. "Commander." So this is Picard.

"Call me Christine. You did wake me up, after all."

"I did." He scoots his stool closer.

"You mentioned Jim."

He nods, his expression changing, growing sad. "The reason no body was found for Captain Kirk is because he was caught up by the energy ribbon that was presumed to have killed him. He was actually...living inside it. I got him out and he gave his life stopping a madman."

"That's my Jim." I swallow, hard. I'm not sure how to absorb this. So I move on. "And why is Spock on Romulus?"

"Several years earlier, Spock found the cure for you, but Starfleet had you moved and made it look as if you'd died—I don't know why. He...he didn't take it well. He's apparently had dreams of unifying the Vulcans and Romulans for some time so he went there, but he was being used by Romulan intelligence. They very nearly invaded Vulcan."

"But they didn't?"

"No. And during that operation, Spock and my Mister Data, the other voice you heard at the cryo chamber, were able to gain access to the Romulan information servers. It's where we found the cure you needed—you're no longer dying, my dear."

"Thank you for that."

"You're welcome." And now he actually looks embarrassed. "There was also a great deal of information about you—and your relationship with Spock—in the Romulan intelligence files we accessed. They gave him the cure when they did because they knew he'd have nothing left if he thought you were dead. They were monitoring the various places Starfleet was keeping you, it's how we knew where to look."

"And you've sprung me from cold storage why?"

"Because I made a promise to James Kirk that I would bring his friend home. And I can't do that—but you can."

I can't help it. I laugh. "You expect me to believe that you'd risk your career—and possibly compromise any number of important things—for that? A promise?" Starfleet intelligence would have his hide as well as his ship and commission.

He leans in. "I might. You don't know I wouldn't."

"I'm a pretty good reader of people. There's more."

He nods, as if conceding. "We need him. Here, not on Romulus. We're getting troubling intelligence. There are...things happening in other quadrants that may soon spill over into ours." He sighs. "At the moment, we can't go to Romulus to get him, but you can. And Starfleet proper can't be part of this—it has to look like a rogue operation."

"I sure didn't miss this kind of thing while I was sleeping." Not that I "missed" anything. I didn't even dream. Went to sleep at the end of one century, woke up three quarters into the next.

"It sounds more complicated than it will be. We are getting assistance, just..."

"The kind that gets disavowed if I fuck up."

"Quite. I hope you don't mind Klingons. You'll be riding with some."

"Joy." Although I got Roger's bitch of a mother to like me, how hard can some warriors be?

He made a face of commiseration. "Once you arrive, your appearance will be altered to make you look Romulan. We logged his last location. You'll find him. Get him out. Take him to Vulcan. Perrin will contact me when you get there."

"Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"She's Spock's stepmother. Amanda passed away many years ago."

Of all the things I've heard, this makes me the saddest. "And Sarek?"

"He's dead as well. Just a few years ago."

I feel so many things building up, so many losses. "Does Spock know?"

"Yes." His smile is bittersweet. "I melded with both of them. Sarek was an extraordinary man. Spock...Spock is, I think, a defeated one in some ways. Cause or no. He needs you, Christine. He needs to be...loved."

"He was loved. He had a wife."

"Yes, but she's gone. He hasn't taken a lover, as far as we know. He is..." His face changes and he looks down. "I fear he might be much changed from when you knew him."

And at this, I laugh. "Do you know how many versions of Spock I've known over the years? I'll find him in there. My Spock." The one who finally, when it was far too late, loved me.

His grin is infectious; I decide I like this Captain Picard. "I have no doubt of that, Christine."

* * *

 _Spock_

You are tired, in spirit, in body. Your mission, in its own inexorable way, is a success. The Romulan people would find their way without you, but you know you have helped speed the process to some extent. Having an interlocutor for questions, someone to answer "But how did Vulcan handle this issue" has been invaluable to those who seek.

But you are not sure you are making enough of a difference to warrant staying. And you long to go home—if you still have one now that your father is gone.

"Spock?" D'Tan stands at the opening, his presence barely an imposition.

"Yes?"

"There is someone to see you."

"A new convert?" There are so many now. Not all of them legitimate—the Tal Shiar has not given up trying to infiltrate, but your Romulan brothers and sisters in the cause take care of them. Permanently.

That should horrify you, that they kill in the name of peace, but the needs of the many...

"No, it's a woman who says you know her. From a long time ago. She appears Romulan, but she sounds human."

You feel something rising inside you, something you have not felt in a very, very long time. It is hope and you squashed it out the day you threw the cure to Christine's illness into the ocean.

Could it be? "Show her in."

Her smile is the same. Cocky yet somehow gentle, the emotions mingling on features transformed to Romulan. "Howdy, sailor."

The skin around your mouth nearly cracks as you smile, a miniscule break, but still a smile. An expression you have not made in decades, you think. "How?"

"Starfleet fucking with you, primarily—or maybe they moved me for their own reasons. Picard wasn't sure. Your buddies here knew where I was, fortunately." She gestures toward the roof of the cave and you take it to mean the Tal Shiar.

"It is, indeed, fortunate."

"I like Picard. He says you melded with him. Something I should know?" She is waggling her eyebrows in a silly way she never would have when she was your lover.

It is ironic how much lighter she can be in this dark cave after eighty years of sleep than when you were together.

"I am not involved with Picard. Or anyone." You study her. She looks just as she did. Not young, but a piece of your past nonetheless, come back to you.

Just as Jim would have been, if you'd found him inside the Nexus. Picard sent word, let you know what had happened. You mourned your friend twice, only less intently the second time. Somehow, knowing there was a body made it easier to let go.

"You gonna stare at me all day?" She is grinning now.

"You have a beautiful smile. I did not have cause to see it during our year."

"No, I wasn't smiling this smile. This is joy, Spock."

And you feel it, along with hope; you feel joy, some small spark, breaking through the walls you have built.

She takes another step toward you. "I've changed a little though. Thanks to technology." She pushes a strand of hair that has worked loose back into her ponytail.

"The ears suit you."

"They do, don't they?" She glances over at D'Tan and says, "I think this is your cue to go, junior."

D'Tan doesn't even look to you for confirmation. He fairly flees, pulling the curtain closed behind him.

"When I thought you were dead..." You are not sure how to tell her what has changed, how much of you has been buried.

"Starfleet wanted you to think that. Believe me, I'm going to have words with whoever wanted you to think that." She reaches for you, her hand on your cheek, and you feel her anger, but not at you—at Starfleet for how they left you hopeless—and you feel her love.

Her love, warm and soft and easing in, between the cracks in the walls you have built, like weeds through a sidewalk. Slow and subtle, but inexorable. "I lost hope, Christine."

You have never considered that losing hope meant losing her. You have lost so many other things before. But she was the one that would save you. She was always your—how did Jim put it? Your sure thing. Waiting, in cryo, for you. Waiting to bring you back to life.

"It's okay if you lost hope. We'll find it. Because I'm back. And I'm healthy—it would seem that Commander Data accessed some medical logs while he was breaking into Romulan databases. He found the cure."

"Most fortuitous."

"It was."

"But I had the cure, Christine. I compromised nothing getting it—the Tal Shiar already knew about your illness."

"I know." She touches you and you feel her gratitude that you never stopped trying. "Pardek also knew I'd been moved. Picard thought that Pardek planned it that way—that you thinking me dead was the final push needed toward unification and...coming here." She gestures around the cave. "But it doesn't matter who healed me at this point. Just that I'm here to take you home. It's time—and you're needed." And her smile as she says the last part is fierce, like Jim would be or your father if he'd ever smiled. Fierce and relentless.

It is time. And you are needed.

You pull her closer and can feel in the pulse of her heartbeat, in the sensation of skin on skin, that she expects a fight about leaving. Instead you just gather her up into your arms, pulling her down to the bed and kissing her.

"Is this your new way of arguing?" she asks when you finally let her up.

"I am not arguing. I wish to go home. More accurately, I have no home, but I wish to build one with you."

"That's a very nice thing to say." She's moving her clothes out of the way, then yours, and she seems to be figuring out how you are older, how things move more slowly than they did—or so you presume. You have not taken a lover since you thought you lost her.

"It was just a few breaths for me, Spock. A lifetime for you. I should be dead by now."

"You are not. And I am..." You stop and let a real smile show. "I am _happy_ that you are not." And then you pull her onto you, because things are not moving as slowly as you feared, and she smells sweet and ripe and warm, and burying yourself in her flesh is the most natural thing to do.

You hear someone at the curtain, then D'Tan saying you are not to be disturbed. Your young friend somehow understands what Christine means to you, and he is protecting you. You have never loved him more.

Love. An emotion you have tried to barricade yourself from even acknowledging you can still feel, but you do, for that young man, for Picard who is still looking out for you, and for this woman who found you even when you failed to rescue her.

"I missed you." She is holding you almost desperately. As if there is still someone between you.

Well, there is—the Romulan government—but no other woman.

"You missed me even in the breaths of no time?"

"Even so. I woke up with tears on my face, Spock. The tears I shed as I fell asleep."

"Did you dream?"

"I didn't. I was lucky, I think. I just had our goodbye, a day of madly getting my crap together without looking like I was doing that, and then poof, asleep. And then another poof and awake. The first question I asked was 'When?' Where seemed inconsequential compared to that. Then I asked about you."

You close your eyes and breathe in the scent of her, reveling in the soft noises she is making, and you kiss her so she can let go and bury the sound of her climax in your mouth. The feel of her tightening around you sends you following.

Bliss. It is the only thing you can think. And nothing has ever felt like this since you lost her. You loved Nyota, you greatly enjoyed sex with her, but it lacked something...elemental that you feel with Christine.

She nuzzles your neck, kissing gently, then biting down softly on your ear before letting go and whispering, "My ship returns tomorrow morning. Can you say your goodbyes by then?"

"I can." You pull away, so you can see her face, her beautiful blue eyes, the lovely pale skin, still youthful compared to how you have aged. "I am not as I was."

She reaches down, her hand circling you, causing you to groan as she squeezes and releases, then repeats the motion until you moan helplessly. "This guy begs to differ."

She lets go and studies you, taking in, you think, the changes time has wrought. "We'll figure out the rest. On Vulcan."

"Why there?"

"Because you have a stepmother who's expecting us according to my travel agent Picard." She starts to laugh. "My little sojourn here isn't exactly on the books."

"You are evading extradition?"

"No. But not everyone knows I'm here. Frankly, I think Picard may be making this up as he goes along. But I trust him."

"He is a man of good character. I trust him, as well."

"Well there you go. It'll be you and me, getting to know Perrin. Or I will. I guess you know her?"

"I do." You make no attempt to hide the dislike in your tone.

"Ouch. Well, leave her to me."

You wonder if Saavik will be there. The daughter you abandoned. The grandson you adored.

Her expression changes, and you feel her compassion everywhere you are touching her. "Joking aside, I'm so sorry about your parents. I cared for them. You must miss them so."

You nod. "Perrin and I did not part on good terms."

"Well, Picard likes her. " She laughs her way into a kiss, her breath warm in your mouth. You kiss for a long time before she pulls away and says, "Besides, there isn't a person I can't soften up. Years of practice in ops—and on the way here. Once you've made a Klingon crew putty in your hands, it's pretty much a cakewalk after that."

And you smile, more smiles with her than in a very long time. "I believe that."

* * *

 _Perrin_

She tries not to be too obvious looking at the chrono on the wall of the salon. She's expecting Spock and some Starfleet officer named Chapel. Having a gentleman caller at this moment is beyond inconvenient.

Having two of them, even more so.

She's become quite the catch for Vulcans of a certain age. It's well known how fiercely she protected Sarek and his reputation. How she did it within the Vulcan way, despite being human.

She seems to now be catnip to these men staring down their own mortality.

Sotahk and Saverin are both prominent men. Neither knew the other was planning a visit to her. She thinks it's time to reinstitute the concept of calling cards—or just to insist on a social calendar. Being human does not mean she's spontaneous by nature.

In fact, she's not. She's been a planner all her life.

The door chimes. She cannot decide which will be more uncomfortable: a third eligible male or Spock.

When Spock walks in, with a human woman in tow, she decides this is definitely the more awkward of the two.

Sotakh stands. "Spock. It has been a very long time."

"Indeed, sir. Most agreeable to see you." He looks at Saverin. "And you as well, Cousin."

She nearly rolls her eyes. He's not that closely related. A fourth cousin once removed—she checked it herself when he started to come around. But trust Spock to establish some familial bond when it doesn't need to be called out.

"May I introduce my mate. Commander Christine Chapel."

Perrin thinks the designation surprises Chapel as much as it does her and the two men, but she rallies quickly.

"Gentleman. Very nice to meet you but it's been a long trip." Chapel meets Perrin's eyes. "His normal room?"

"Of course. I have changed nothing." Even though she wanted to turn it into a sewing room just for spite. But he is Sarek's son and she will honor that. She's just glad Sarrin and T'Pela are off world. She has no wish to see her boy at odds with this man if she and Spock get into an argument over Sarek—or the house.

Sarek left it to them both. To her, to pass on to Sarrin—if she remarries, it goes to him immediately—and to Spock, just in case, she thinks, he ever came home.

She thought that unlikely. How wrong she was.

"Gentleman, I must beg your forgiveness but I need to attend to my family."

Sotahk and Saverin rise, saying all the right things, letting her go. She thinks Saverin wants to hang back, but she shoos them out as effectively as she ever managed Sarek.

Men are easy. Men who aren't Spock, that is.

She walks down the hallway, making sure her footsteps sound out so it will not appear she is sneaking.

Chapel comes out, stands just outside the door, arms crossed over her chest, head cocked, expression as unreadable as a Vulcan.

Perrin can feel herself bristling. Is she being assessed in her own house?

She decides to go on the attack. "The last time I checked, Spock's mate was Nyota Uhura." Such a comment is beyond rude, but she will not be put on notice by some interloper.

"Last time I checked Sarek was alive and married to another woman. But, I've been asleep for eighty years, so what the hell do I know?" She smiles, and it lights up her face.

Perrin thinks it's a weapon she wields on purpose—such a contrast to her stony gaze of before. And yet, she finds herself relaxing in the light of it. "Asleep?"

"Cryo." She looks into the room. "Take the cough medicine and get into bed. Now." Then she pulls the door closed. "Romulan caves are bad for the lungs. Someone didn't care about that. Now he does." She walks toward her, takes her by the arm, and says, "Picard says you have real mint tea."

She's used to being the one doing the manipulating and yet she finds herself leading Chapel to the kitchen, making her tea, and even getting out the nice mugs. "Sugar?"

"If you have it, yes. I've been craving it since I woke up. Haven't been warm, either. Man, does Vulcan feel good—once I took my tri-ox." Her smile is unguarded—in that way that says it's meant to look that way but is hiding worlds.

"You have me quite at a disadvantage, Commander."

"Christine. Or Chris. Whichever."

"Which do you prefer?" She wants to know—it will tell her a lot about the woman. Christine is more formal. More weighty. Chris is your kid sister, the neighbor down the hall who watches your cat.

"Honestly, I don't prefer either. Men I loved called me both names. So they're both precious." She smiles but then the look turns sad. "I know this is years late, but I'm very sorry for your loss. Sarek was a friend of mine."

And then it clicks. This is the woman Sarek wanted Spock to be with. He warmed to Nyota over time, just as she did. But this is the one he preferred.

She finds, as is usually the case, that she agrees with him.

"Thank you, Christine." That sounds right. Chris sounds like a name someone else would call her. "I miss him a great deal."

She nods. "He was such a good man. So strong."

She remembers the end. The raving wreck this woman thankfully never had to see. "Yes. He was."

Christine's look changes, grows a little devilish. "Were those men wooing you? Do they come in pairs here now?"

"Neither intended to show up at the same time. And yes, I'm apparently quite the catch. Elderly men love a woman who can nurse."

Christine doesn't ask about that, so she assumes Spock told her about Sarek's disease. She just nods and says, "I was a nurse, once. Men eat that nurture stuff up, don't they?"

"They do seem to. I don't know that I wish to remarry, though."

"Then don't. Entertain the notion with your various men but commit to nothing. That way you get dinner companions but don't have to settle down with just one." She looks out where Amanda's roses used to grow and Perrin tenses—was this woman ever here to see the garden? "What a pretty pool."

She relaxes. "It is, isn't it? Spock will hate it."

"He doesn't like swimming?"

She thinks this woman knows full well if Spock does or doesn't like swimming. She is just trying to put her at ease.

It's working, but she's still aware of the trick.

"It was where his mother's roses were. They...they didn't prosper once she was gone." Even if she'd had to wait till Sarek was gone, too, to have the spot redone.

She hears footsteps coming, heavy. Spock. She can feel herself tensing again.

Christine rolls her eyes as she turns to him. "You're supposed to be sleeping. You didn't sleep at all on the Klingon ship."

"Perhaps because I was not certain I would still have a mate when we arrived here. You were quite popular."

"As I said." She grins up at him and for a moment, Perrin thinks he's going to lean down and kiss her, but of course he doesn't. His eyes though are very soft.

He stops and looks out at the pool, and Perrin waits for it, the tone she knows by heart, the disapproval of this final usurpation.

But instead he just nods, slowly, as if something makes sense to him.

"The roses were dying, Spock. And Sulek loves it." She sounds defensive. She hates that.

"Sulek is...?" Christine looks from her to Spock.

She wonders how they can be mates if she doesn't know about Spock's grandson in spirit if not in blood.

"Saavik's son," Spock answers, then looks over at her. "Is she on Vulcan?"

"No, Spock. The world does not stop and start where you are."

She watches Christine to see if she will jump to his defense, the way she would have to Sarek's, but she waits, expressionless.

Again he nods. "I am aware of that, Perrin." There is no acid in his tone. It sounds like he means what he says.

She doesn't know how to respond.

Christine smiles gently. "Tea would be good. Help you sleep. But without sugar." She looks at her in the way women have, the pleasant smile of "Do this, please."

She gets to work making another cup.

She is making tea for Spock and he's sitting next to this woman she's never met and waiting like an obedient child. She thinks his hand may be on Christine's knee, and Christine puts her arm around him for a moment, laying her cheek against his forehead. "Your fever's down."

"That is hardly an accurate method for determining my temperature."

She lets him go and picks up her tea. "Don't call my methods into question, Mister. I learned from the best."

"Christine is a doctor as well as a scientist," he says, explaining for her benefit—possibly for the first time. It is a gesture of...grace.

Their interactions have never had that.

"This tea is wonderful," Christine says, and she meets her eyes, and Perrin knows the woman understands that this is new—this agreeable moment with Spock. She has read the room in scant moments and somehow erased years of discord.

Or maybe just jumped over them—eighty years of ignorance of what he said or she said. Bringing back a different Spock, weathered by his time on Romulus in ways she doesn't entirely understand but finds welcome.

With no Sarek between them, perhaps it's now possible to have a relationship that's not rife with bitterness.

She finds she would welcome it. That, too, is new.

Perhaps they have all changed.

* * *

 _Christine_

I'm sitting on the patio, staring at the pool, wishing I'd packed a suit. Stifling a sigh, I lean back in the lounger, staring at the gorgeous night sky, full of stars. It feels so good to be outside, free and unconfined.

The door opens, and I turn, ready to lecture Spock for not staying in bed, but it's Perrin.

She's holding two glasses, each with a finger of amber liquid. "Can't sleep?"

I laugh. I can't help it. It's funny. After eighty years of doing nothing but and sleeping like a baby on the mission to get Spock and back, tonight, now that we're finally safe, I can't relax enough to close my eyes.

"Here." She hands me one of the glasses.

I recognize the scent. "Whiskey?"

"Rye. Don't tell Spock. One more reason to judge me."

"Both his best friend and I drank Scotch. He better not judge you for this." I taste the rye and smile, leaning my head back as I feel the warm, spicy burn. "This is good."

"It's from my hometown. Vail."

"No wonder you prosper here. You're used to thin air."

"I am." She studies me. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. Right as rain." I lift my glass and realize my hand is shaking.

"Drink up. Then we're going swimming." As I start to say I don't have a suit, she holds up a hand. "There are loads of suits in the changing room over there. I never know who's going to show up here between Saavik's family and my son's."

"Son? You mean, Spock has another brother he never told me about?"

She rolls her eyes. "It doesn't surprise me he'd leave that out. Being my son was Sarrin's first sin. His second was that they've never had much common ground other than their father. Maybe that can change. Sarek was the love of my life and I miss him terribly, but I'm wondering if without him, the family will...fill in."

"Nature abhors a vacuum?"

"Just so."

"It can happen." I drink down the rye and go to the changing room rummaging around till I find a suit that works. Perrin is already in the pool when I come out.

She's splashing happily, and I try to imagine her in a rose garden that belonged to another woman. It's hard. "Vulcans don't really enjoy swimming, Christine. Can you imagine?"

I slip into the water. It's warm enough to be comforting, but not so hot it doesn't refresh. "I can't, actually." I'm feeling the whiskey, the slightly woozy, happy feeling, and I hold my hand up. Rock steady. I'm off my game: normally booze would be the first thing an ops lifer would reach for.

I paddle around for a while, then float on my back, staring at the stars.

"You didn't expect Spock to introduce you as his mate, did you?" Her tone is tentative, as if she's not sure I'll welcome this kind of inquiry.

I laugh softly. Because while it is nosy, it's also clear this woman misses nothing. "I sure didn't."

"Did it displease you? You hide your emotions quite well. I could tell you were surprised, but not how you felt about it otherwise."

I turn over, treading water, making circles in the water with my hands. "I've loved Spock for a very long time. Years even before I was involved with him."

"Before Nyota?"

"Uh...?" How much to tell her? Spock would probably prefer I make a better story than that I was his mistress. But who else am I going to talk to about this? My friends are dead. Picard? He didn't strike me as the kind to want to dig deep into my romances.

"Ohhhh," she says, getting it before I can tell her, surprise in her voice but not a lot of judgment. "While he was married?"

"No, engaged, but not married. It was...not my finest moment." But wasn't it? I won him, after all. Even if I didn't get to keep him. He would have left Ny. "It was after Jim died. There were healthier coping mechanisms for both Spock and me, but we chose each other. And then I got sick with something there was no cure for...in the Federation, at that time." I wait to see if she'll understand.

She doesn't disappoint. "Ah."

"Yeah. The horrible part is Ny was one of my best friends. Until that. But then I went into cryo, and that was not open knowledge at the time. Starfleet said I was lost during a mission. So I was out of Ny's hair—no lingering awkwardness at reunions."

"That explains a lot, actually. The way Nyota and Spock were with each other. Not that they didn't love each other, because I believe they did. But...I think you were always there, between them."

"Ny thought I was dead."

"Believe me a ghost can come between a man and his wife." She looks down.

"Amanda?"

She nods. "I never tried to be her. I didn't want to replace her. But Sarek deserved love. And it was logical that he remarry. The age span of a Vulcan compared to a human nearly mandates he will outlive his spouse."

I nod. I sense that she has possibly never talked about this to anyone who knew Amanda.

"All my life with him I worked hard to find some balance of dutiful wife, almost Vulcan, but still being me. But she was the benchmark against which I was constantly judged." She kicks out, splashing water, then goes still. "Do I measure up, my dear? Please be honest."

"You don't have to measure up. You're you. She was Amanda. Sarek loved you both."

Her face clouds but she nods. I decide not to explore further. There's a stiffness to her that wasn't there before. A door that says, "This far and no further."

I can respect that.

I go back to stargazing. "I guess, while I was sleeping, Spock decided we were mates. Star-crossed, obviously."

"Or he decided it in the short time you had with him on Romulus. He's very impetuous."

I laugh, because he is. And unilateral. The idea of telling me I was his mate before he shared it with the world probably never occurred to him. "I don't mind being his mate. I just..." No, this is too much to share.

"You just what?"

I paddle away, and realize I'm crying. Shit, what is wrong with me?

"Eighty years, Christine. Eighty years and they send you right out, and you do it. You do it because I think you always get the job done, don't you? No matter how much you might need to just take a moment, get a breath, and stop to say, 'Where the hell am I?'"

I nod, not turning, not wanting her to see me so weak.

"I can't imagine what you must be going through. Were you out here because it feels too close inside?"

I nod. "I was asleep the whole time. There's no way that should have made me claustrophobic. I never have been before." And I was fine on the Klingon ship. Then again, on the way out I was drinking blood wine and learning warrior songs instead of dealing with what's happened to me. And on the way back, I had Spock to worry about. "I'm falling apart but he needs me strong." I say it as softly as I can, but she has ears like a Vulcan.

"I know that well. Sarek's illness. It was...all consuming." She paddles over to me. "It's why I don't want to remarry. Even if I enjoy the courtship of all these Vulcan gentlemen. I don't want to be a supporting character in another person's story. I want to star."

"And you should. You should be the star."

"I've grown close to Saavik over the years. It took time, but we found our way. Her family comes here often—her son, especially. He is a child of three worlds, and I think the fact that I'm human is comforting to him. And now my daughter-in-law is pregnant. I'll be a grandmother again—and ready to appreciate it this time."

"That sounds wonderful. You have a full life—family and home."

"But you your career, from what I heard Sarek say. He thought so highly of you, Christine, of your abilities, not just your character. No matter what happens, Spock will not be the star of your story. You both will. And you've already been with an even more famous man, haven't you? Kirk couldn't have been easy."

"He was, though. He was fun." And I still miss him. And suddenly the idea of him dying under a pile of rubble is more than I can bear. "And we should have kept looking. We gave up and he was still alive and then he had to die for real and—"

I'm crying again. God damn it. I'm crying because Jim was lost in some energy ribbon while Spock and I were fucking. And because I'm a little bit adrift even though I know Spock loves me and wants to be with me and that, yes, Picard was right that I was the one who could make him leave Romulus.

The only one.

But still. So much, piling on. Friends, now dead. Family who don't even know me but are related. Do I even have a job still? Am I retired now?

I am shaking with the effort of keeping everything together.

She pulls me in, one arm holding to the edge of the pool, one around me. "Oh, dear, let it out. I won't tell anyone. And the pool will catch all your tears."

And that undoes me. I don't know how long I cry, but it's hard and ugly and I'm sure I look a mess. But once I'm done, she lets me go.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I've been you in some ways. Believe me." She paddles to the steps. "I think we could use another drink."

"Definitely." I laugh, the sound half sob, half amusement.

"Get yourself together. If Picard needed you to get Spock, then I imagine there'll be much to do once he gets here tomorrow. Your life will be lived at double time, I think."

"Probably so." Or I'll be sent to some remedial learning place, like Gillian was when Jim brought her back with the whales.

I roll onto my back again and watch the stars, trying to find some inner peace. Finally doing it, but realizing that Perrin is taking a long time to come with more hooch. She finally comes out. "Spock was coughing. I gave him another hypo."

I start to laugh. "Was he awake?"

"Yes. I don't think he knew what to make of me being...motherly. I just pretended it was Sarek, and he shut up and took his medicine like a good boy." She sighs. "They really are children, Christine. If women ran the world..."

I laugh as if I agree, but I've been on worlds where females ran things. They fuck it up just as bad, sadly. Greed and hunger for power are not limited to males.

She sets the glasses next to the pool, then gets back in the water. I swim over and take a glass, and we clink them gently.

"To a new friend, I hope," she says softly.

"To a new friend. A very kind, new friend."

Her smile transforms her face. "Cheers."

* * *

 _Spock_

You wake and realize the tight and heavy feeling in your chest, which you've been ignoring for months, has eased.

You turn and see Christine lying next to you, one hand above her head, and she smells slightly of the chemicals used in pools. You imagine making love to her in that pool, some day when Perrin is out for a long time—perhaps with one of the Vulcans that are no doubt wooing her.

The wife of Sarek, even though she is human, is still a significant figure. And you saw through the meld with Picard how well she guarded your father's dignity.

It is probably the meld that is making you so much less brittle with her. That and time.

You check the chrono to make sure it is not too early to wake Christine then you lean over, kissing along her shoulder, savoring the scent of her.

"Mmmmm." She smiles. "Can it be my husband kissing me awake? The guy who apparently mated with me without even a fucking proposal."

You can feel more amusement than rancor when you touch her, so you settle for saying, "It is I. Should we have discussed the designation?"

"Uh, yes." She is laughing and opens her eyes.

You are struck again by how blue hers are. You've been surrounded by brown for so long.

"I need to say something, Spock." She pushes you off her and sits up, so you sit up too. "I love you."

"I welcome that sentiment." But you knew that. You know it every time you touch her. You can see it in the way her eyes soften for you, in the gently rueful smile you believe is yours alone.

"That's not where I'm going with this."

"All right." You realize you are smiling slightly. It has been so long since you cared about anything. Even unification became something abstract, not a passion.

"I don't know what Starfleet has planned for you. Or for me—if anything. But...I don't want to just be a figure in the background. If this is our life, I want to be part of it. I want to star in it, not support."

You smile. You honestly cannot imagine her relegated to support. Not this woman who has dragged you from the planet you thought would be your final home. "I heard rumors at times on Romulus. There are changes happening. Something to do with the Gamma Quadrant."

"How?"

"A stable wormhole."

Her eyebrows go way up. "Friends or enemies?"

"It is unclear as of yet. If I were to try to estimate what Starfleet would need from me, it is analysis not a face for diplomacy. And your perspective would be invaluable."

"I'm eighty years behind, Spock."

"So you will see things differently. Fresh eyes. You have no idea how things should be so you will question. It is always the newest to any venture who asks the questions with the most impact. I will insist on you being my partner in this effort, if they resist."

"I wouldn't want to resist you." She is crawling the short distance toward you, and you pull her into your lap. "But you don't even know what the effort is."

"It does not matter. I wish you to be part of it." You pull up her nightgown and she pulls up your robe and then you are together.

You smooth back her hair, enjoying the expressions she makes as you touch her and build her up. She pulls you to her, kissing you almost ferociously. Then she pulls away and neither of you talk, too intent on this feeling—and muffling the noise.

She is giggling as you finish, breathing your groans into her chest, and you do not think you ever heard her laugh that way when you were together before. So happy...so easy and free.

But then her mood changes. You remember she was often mercurial so you study her, and finally ask, "What is it?"

"Before we get too enmeshed in the effort, I want to go to Jim's grave. To say goodbye."

"I, too, wish to go there."

"It's probably a tourist attraction."

You nod. Because it probably is at this point. The Ferengi will have exploited the opportunity if Starfleet did not.

"I know you loved him." You are not sure you want to ask the next part.

And you don't have to. She smooths your hair and says, "I did. I really did. But you, Spock. You're the love of my life."

"And you are mine." You take her hand, twining your fingers with hers. "I realize I was remiss. Will you be my mate? My wife? My partner?"

She raises her eyebrows, her expression telling you that you left out a part.

You sigh, as if it is a great concession to say, "And my love?"

Her smile is delight and triumph in one. "I will." Her smile fades though. "You and Ny. You were happy, weren't you?"

"It took some time. After you were gone, things were strained. It was not until she was unfaithful to me that—"

"What?" She laughs in what sounds like relief. "Here I've been thinking I was the horrible person. Now I can relax." She leans into you. "Sorry, I interrupted."

"No, after that, when she chose to end it, we...found a new way to be. It was very good. I cared for her deeply."

"I did, too, once upon a time. I'm glad, if I couldn't have you, that she did." And she means it—you can feel it through the touch of your fingers. But then her mood shifts again, darkening. "Spock, I'm not sure I'm entirely all right."

You feel worry from her and let go, reaching for the tricorder she has left by the bed.

"No," she stops you, kissing you gently. "I'm healthy, physically. But that long in cryo. I may...I may be a little erratic at times."

"And this will be different in what way?" For a moment, you think it is the wrong thing to say.

But then she laughs, and hits your arm gently. "Okay, asshole, more erratic than usual. Be nice to me is what I'm saying. Pay attention."

"The way you do to me?"

"Yes. Let's be good to each other this time. Let's start out that way, not just finish that way."

"Agreed."

She kisses you softly, and it is warm and everything you want in this moment. "It was good being cared for last night. It has been so long." Then you frown. "Was that you both times?"

She starts to laugh. "Nope." She nuzzles against you. "I really like Perrin."

This is unexpected. Nyota did not, ever, really like Perrin. You know Saavik does, though. But it took years for that.

"She has changed, I think."

"We've all changed. Even in cryo, I changed. In here." She touches her heart. "And I'm a person out of time. You have no idea what that feels like."

"I have been to the past on numerous occasions."

"That's not the same as being shoved into your own reality, only not. Oh well, at least it's not the that mirror universe."

You admire her ability to find the silver lining. You imagine she had to hone that skill working with disasters for so long.

"I have been on Romulus for several years now. I am also somewhat out of date."

"Nice try." She wiggles on your lap and you feel yourself responding.

"Are you doing that on purpose, my wife?"

"Damned straight. Gotta keep your mate satisfied, Spock. Klastok was very interested in getting to know me better."

"I am aware of that. Why do you think I did not sleep on his ship?"

"Don't we need a ceremony? You're getting off so cheap here with your declaration that we're married, calling me your mate and wife."

"Do you wish to have a ceremony?"

She laughs. "No. There'd be no one on the bride's side. Oh, except Scotty. He's alive, same age as he disappeared, according to Picard. But I'll fill you in on that later since you're busy satisfying me, remember?"

"He might be an interesting addition to the team. His knowledge was unparalleled—he also would offer a fresh perspective."

"This is what I get for mentioning it. An absent husband. Where is my comm unit? Klastok gave me his personal number."

You lift her off your lap, pushing her to her back, plunging into her without preamble, wanting to take her in a way that puts you in control. That lets you have her the way you need to, especially after having thought her lost to you forever.

Her smile tells you she knows you are doing exactly that.

It also tells you she does not mind at all.

FIN


End file.
